The Days AR When I Would Shy-
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Caitlin] For the better part of two years Barry Allen has quietly harbored a crush on Caitlin Snow, his lab partner in AP Chemistry. Then all of a sudden Barry musters up the courage to ask Caitlin out on a study date, quickly turning their relationship into something it might not be.
1. Chapter 1

1 - Title is taken from _The Elements of Lust_ from Songs of Love  & Grammar. Ar is the chemical abbreviation for Argon, so the title reads "The Days Are Gone When I Would Shy" in full - chemistry puns seemed like the way to go for this story.

2 - This was originally prompted by **chasingblue57** and has taken me almost two years to actually write, but thank you for inspiring all this, bb!

3 - The most special thanks go to my betas **anisstaranise** and **nctaliaromanova**. Anis listened to me rant, brainstormed countless of plot points and cheerleaded the entire time, and I couldn't be more grateful for her love and support. Melissa is one of the most perceptive and nitpicky (in a good way) betas I've ever had the pleasure of working with. Safe to say, without either of these ladies the story wouldn't be what it is now.

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 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

A HIGH SCHOOL AU

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chapter one

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Papers rustle quietly in the room, the low buzz of the air conditioning a constant background noise. The overlarge portion of the student body idles outside enjoying the early afternoon sun, far away from the stifling confines of the school library. Barry Allen sits hunched over his AP Chemistry notes, neatly copying them to a new composition book—a red ruler to underline titles and subtitles, a mechanical pencil to draw diagrams and visual mock-ups of some of the experiments they did in class, different colored pencils to denote significant differences between the designs.

Besides being calm and quiet and hardly ever crowded, the library has a surprisingly extensive science section. The school owed this to one of its science teachers, Dr Harrison Wells, a former college professor who started teaching high school after a car accident put him in a wheelchair; the science community rumored he would be back at a prestigious college, but for the past three years Dr Wells had been intent on expanding the science department at several schools in the area, and seemed more than comfortable in his current position. He'd hate to see Dr Wells leave; ever since he started taking his classes he's been challenged to do better and his grades have improved. Even Miss Morgan, the biology teacher, had kicked it up a notch after Dr Wells' fine example.

"Hi, excuse me, did my reservation come in?" a voice sounds by the registration desk, a voice he's all too familiar with, and he looks up in time to see Caitlin Snow brush her hair back behind her ear.

He licks his lips, spreads his legs under the table, his right hand lowering down to an empty page.

"Snow?" Caitlin says, smiling down at the librarian, even though the woman in question is infamous for testing students' patience with her rudimentary computer skills. "Caitlin Snow?"

The grey-haired librarian peers down at the end of her nose, where half-moon bifocals are meant to enhance her eyesight; her eyes narrow at the computer screen nonetheless.

"You know what?" Caitlin says as politely as possible. "I'll go look for myself."

She casts another smile down at the librarian, Mrs. Bates, who merely raises an unimpressed eyebrow as another faceless student passes her desk. Caitlin disappears into the English literature section, no doubt searching for the book she reserved for a paper she's working on. He has his own finished and waiting to be printed at home, a psychoanalytical analysis of Edgar Allan Poe's _William Wilson_.

He flicks the end of his pen against his notebook a few times, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Caitlin Eleanor Snow can easily be considered the smartest girl at school, with a kind of beauty—prettiness, really—he imagines poets wrote sonnets about; long auburn hair, slim and tender curves, amazing legs, and that lovely quirk in the left corner of her mouth whenever she talks. She's so much more than that too; Caitlin has a passion for math and science, she's loving and caring towards her friends and has a kind word to spare for any strangers. When she's nervous she chews at her lips until they bleed and when she's calm she appears guarded, steeled, cold almost, yet she's anything but.

And he's noticed all of that about her because he's harbored a crush on her since freshman year, when Miss Morgan partnered them for a group assignment. They had to calculate the mass of the Earth, a simple enough equation once they had all the data, but the total sum of those few hours' work in this very library was his unequivocal conviction that he met his match in Caitlin Snow. The way her mouth moved around words like 'sidereal' and 'orbital period', how she talked with her hands and recited the Earth's gravitational constant by heart took him hook, line and sinker. Or rather; sine, cosine and tangent, though he thoroughly decided to leave the math puns out of their equation.

It didn't start out as a crush—he fell in love with someone else in the same period of time—, but ever since he and Felicity broke up things had evolved. Or devolved, depending on one's perspective.

Caitlin emerges from the English lit section and something in his chest jumps, followed by the sinking yet exciteful flutter of what he's about to do.

"Hey, Cait," he calls, lifting out of his seat a few inches as he presses his elbows down on the table. "Do you think there'll be any questions about electromagnetic interaction on the AP Chem test?"

Caitlin halts to a stop at his table, taking the time to smile and breathe, "Barry," before she tilts her head, gazes off in the distance, and a cute frown knits her eyebrows together. He tries to pretend it doesn't stop him breathing, but who's he kidding?

"I don't know," Caitlin continues, gracefully sinking into another seat at the table, her voice low so Mrs. Bates has no reason to shush them. She leafs aimlessly through one of his notebooks. "We should probably cover all our bases. You know how Dr Wells gets when he thinks we didn't at least revise the material." Her eyes find his again. "Being his only hope and all."

"Yeah." He huffs a small laugh, surprised when Caitlin remains by his side. He wouldn't call them friends, per se, they're acquaintances at best, lab partners in Dr Wells' classes for two years now, mainly because they were some of the only sophomores to take his physics class last year. Whenever they successfully finished an experiment or ranked number 1 and 2 in the class, Dr Wells called them 'his only hope for the future.' A lot of that had to do with Caitlin's rather competitive nature.

Caitlin settles an elbow on the table, chin in the palm of her hand, and finds his eyes, her own big and twinkling and _good God_ , when had this crush twisted him into such a mess? It started out innocent enough, quietly fascinated by Caitlin's inquiring mind, but lately he's been pining after a girl he can't have, the girl in all those teen movies that all the nerds never had a shot with. Except in so many wonderful ways Caitlin's as big a nerd as he is. Their shared love of science is the only reason he manages to get any words out at all.

"Would you—" he blurts, the words out before his brain has decided he should ask in the first place, "I mean, if you—want to, maybe we could—" His own eyebrows knit together in confusion, words like 'brain-to-mouth' filter swimming in front of his eyes; Iris would have a field day watching him carry on this conversation. "Study together?"

Caitlin's eyes set in an apology. "I promised Ronnie I'd go see him practice."

Of course; Ronnie Raymond, quarterback bane-of-his-existence, otherwise known as Caitlin's long-term boyfriend. He never quite understood how the two of them added up, or why they stayed together when their interests barely overlapped. Then again, he doesn't really have a leg to stand on in that one-way discussion.

"But tonight?"

His eyes find hers in .3 fractions of a second, heart stuttering hot flashes.

"I could—come over?" Caitlin asks carefully, eyebrows rising.

"Sure," he breathes, vividly imagining Caitlin in his house, —in his bedroom, sitting cross-legged on his bed hunched over her textbook, brushing her hair back behind her ear every few minutes—, until his mouth does that thing again where it fails to consider his brain. "I mean—you can." He nods, folding his arms together on top of the table. _What even_? "You should definitely—come over."

"Okay." Caitlin smiles wide. "See you then."

He awkwardly gets up halfway out of his chair as Caitlin takes her leave and sags back as soon as she's out of sight. This is getting ridiculous. He is a perfectly eloquent and smart guy; it should not be this difficult for him to talk to Caitlin. Yet his tongue's in knots every time she so much as walks into a room.

He nearly has a heart attack when two hands land on his shoulders.

"Way to go, Barr. You really showed her who's the man."

Iris drops into the chair next to him.

"I have no desire to show her who's the man." He rubs the back of his head and starts gathering his books, stacking them inside his backpack. "I can't help it, as soon as I try to form full sentences around her I turn into this—" He searches aimlessly for the right word, "—caveman."

"You Barr." Iris hits him in the shoulder. "She Caitlin."

" _Shhhh_ ," Mrs. Bates shushes, a crooked finger pointed at the 'silence in the library' sign.

Iris rolls her eyes but follows him obediently out the door, the short skirt of her cheerleading outfit playfully swaying. He never quite understood why the uniforms had to be so short and form fitting; surely a looser fabric would improve maneuverability, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't enjoyed watching Felicity wear one of these their first Halloween together. Felicity had opined every single other outfit she might've chosen would've been sexualized as well, but had still used it to her advantage later in the evening when they found they had her house to themselves.

"Hey, Iris!" a voice booms down the hallway, one too vividly reminiscent of bruises down his arms and black eyes, running for his life but never quite fast enough. He turns to see the football team's middle linebacker, Tony Woodward, make his way over, his eyes devouring Iris' body. "Your boyfriend let you out of the house like that?"

Tony was proof that stereotypes in high school truly did exist beyond the vestiges of a movie screen.

Heat rises at the back of his neck, the sort only guys like Tony managed to elicit, and he would absolutely defend his best friend's honor if it weren't for Iris promptly flipping Tony off. One could always count on Iris to have the perfect reply in situations like these.

Iris took care of herself without help from anyone, and if that also happened to mean he didn't get shoved into any lockers, well, self-preservation proved one of his biological imperatives. Raised by a cop dad after her mother left, Iris West not only had the smarts, the beauty and the spunk to make it big one day, she had a mean left hook Tony would loath to be on the receiving end of. Thankfully Tony's smart enough to retreat before any bodily harm can be done.

"For the record," Iris says, digging around her locker. "Tony's a prime example of a _real caveman_. You can talk to girls just fine, Barry. Maybe it's time you started seeing Caitlin like one."

"Excuse me?"

Iris sighs and faces him. "You've put her on this pedestal next to all the other impossible things you think you'll never reach. But you can, Barr. You're smart, you're dedicated, and you're one of the nice guys. Contrary to popular belief, they don't finish last."

Iris closes her locker as if to close this argument; she's said what she needed to say and, of course, everything she says is one hundred percent the God's honest truth. He rather loves that about her.

"One day some lucky girl is going to see you for the amazing guy I know you are."

He nods, though Iris' words don't sink in quite as staunchly as her conviction. "Yeah."

In the grander scheme of things Iris isn't wrong. He lacks that proverbial brain-to-mouth filter but he never got tongue-tied around Iris or any other girl who simply asked him a question. But wasn't the whole reason he could talk to Felicity about the real stuff the fact that she got as flustered and tongue-tied as he did sometimes? and once they both realized that the tongue-tied-ness sort of disappeared?

Maybe he should get to know Caitlin better, find some way to spend time with her outside of class. Like tonight. _When she's coming over_. Oh God.

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"Good luck tonight, kid," Iris says, as soon as she carefully parks in front of his house. They both learned to drive together, but since Iris was the one with the car she drove them to and from school, a matter of getting more practice. How she ever managed to pass her exam without being able to properly parallel park is one of the great mysteries of this world.

"See ya."

He climbs out of the red Fiat 500, one Iris has lovingly nicknamed 'Berry', his long limbs as grateful as ever for freedom, and waves Iris off. They've been friends for most of their lives, and yet he doubts he'll ever completely know Iris West. She's a girl of many talents and surprises, with a mischievous side about her that went beyond teen rebellion; it was a part of her, and one day it'll either get her in trouble, or get her opportunities less daring people might not.

Pushing through the front door, Krypto runs over tail wagging, and he kneels down to give the golden retriever his full attention. At least Krypto's happy to see him; he never complains, even after he tried to dress him in a cape that one Halloween when he was seven, or after giving him such a nerdy name, or even after he accidentally forgets to put his food out in time. Krypto's always there.

"Everything okay, honey?"

He meets his mother's loving eyes at the sound of her voice, any pessimism instantly gone. "Yeah." He smiles, standing again, and decides that feeling sorry for himself won't get him anywhere. So what if Caitlin has a boyfriend with shoulders twice as broad as his, that Ronnie could probably squash him like a trash compactor with his bare hands, or that he has a crush on the one girl he can't have. There are worse things, like war and famine, drought or homelessness; compared to the rest of the world his problems are kind of insignificant. Being Caitlin's friend isn't the worst possible prospect.

His eyes fall to the wrench in his mom's hand.

"Your dad forgot to fix the garbage disposal."

" _Again_?"

His mom shakes her head and turns into the kitchen. "Most brilliant man I've ever met," she calls over her shoulder, but with a few large steps he falls in line behind her. "But one of these days he's going to forget his own head."

He smiles fondly, secretly in love with the way his parents talk about each other. Despite being a doctor and a fairly organized person, his dad's forgetful, and if it weren't for the meticulous to-do lists, post-it reminders and the diligent work of his secretary, he would lose his way home. His mom, on the other hand, while having a memory like a steel trap, has the bad habit of arriving everywhere in the nick of time. She's constantly in a rush, a trait she unfortunately passed on to him. Unlike his mom, however, he had a knack for being late.

"Need a hand?" he asks, the cupboards underneath the sink wide open and emptied of cleaning products.

"Only if your homework is done," his mom cautions, but one pointed look from him tells her all she needs to know. She hands over the wrench without further comment.

The next hour and a half he helps his mom with chores usually left to his dad, but it keeps his mind off tonight, when he's supposed to be forming coherent sentences around Caitlin; he can't for the life of him figure out how he's going to do that. Maybe he could let her do all the talking, or maybe he can keep their conversation limited to electromagnetic fields and a quick pop quiz. How will he ever be her friend if he doesn't learn to talk to her like a normal human being?

 _You've put her on this pedestal next to all the other impossible things you think you'll never reach_ , Iris' words ring in his ears, a reminder of why exactly she's his best friend—she has the most singular way of seeing the world; she's happy and breezy, but not to the point where she neglects her friends and family. Unlike a lot of people their age, himself included, Iris knew exactly what she wanted, and exactly how she was going to get it: hard work, gumption, and a smile for everyone. Unlike him Iris rarely second-guessed herself.

Maybe it's time he stopped doing that too.

"Cait's coming over to study tonight"—he drops the news while he and his dad are setting the table, having already told his mom—"If that's okay."

"Keeping your enemies close, huh?" His dad's playful eyes narrow on his face. "Smart move."

He laughs, tempted to make a quip about how all is fair in love and war, but thinks the better of it; his parents more than likely know about his crush given how often he talks about Caitlin, and he doesn't need to give his dad any more ammunition—he might encourage him to _get the girl_ , or something.

They have a quiet dinner and talk about their days; his mom about her charities, his dad about his patients, him about his schoolwork, despite his AP classes being far beyond anything his parents would understand. But he loves that they try and show an interest in his life.

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After that, time seems to slow down; the dials of the clock fight for every single second, in rhythm with the beats of his heart against his ribcage. Caitlin might be on her way—will she walk? will she drive?—she'll be in his house, in one of the most personal spaces to him and it's... well, to be honest, it's a lot to take in.

Should he introduce her to his parents? Should he expect his parents to drop in on them for a chat? How do study dates work again? He checks his watch for the ninth time in five minutes when his mom calls, "Barr!" and once he's eagerly sprinted towards the hallway he finds his mom holding up the phone for him, whispering, "It's Caitlin."

His chest deflates a little, fearing the worst. She's supposed to be here already. "Caitlin?"

"Hey, Barry," Caitlin's voice comes hesitant. "I hate to do this last minute, but my dad had to rush to work and I have to watch Charlie."

He sighs out of earshot of the phone's receiver. That's just his luck.

Maybe it's time he starts facing the facts and accept he'll never find an in with Caitlin Snow.

"Could you maybe come over?"

His heart drops to his stomach. Come over? To her house? Where she sleeps, and showers, and—

"Yeah." He nods vehemently. "Of course. I can be there in twenty minutes?"

"Okay, great."

He hangs up the phone and gulps a few calming breaths. Okay. Go over to Caitlin's house. _Right now_.

After about two full minutes he gets his legs working and rushes up the stairs, quickly grabbing his things together—notebooks, textbooks, a pencil—, rushes back down the stairs, and shouts a quick, "GottaheadtoCaitswontbelate!"

It takes him fifteen minutes to get to Caitlin's house. He runs despite his uncoordinated long legs, his lungs burning taking in the cool summer air, his calves aching, but he never once thinks to slow down.

The small Craftsman comes into view in the distance, matching the other Craftsman houses with its dark oak beams and well-maintained front lawn, a nondescript car in the driveway. The house, not much bigger than his, has a few steps leading up to the porch, the front porch concealed underneath an extension of the roof, tapered square columns supporting it.

He takes a few moments to gather his wits and force fresh air deep into his lungs, before he rings the doorbell. What's he doing here? What does he do once Caitlin opens the door? Just—wing it?

The lock snaps open from the inside, and soon his vision fills with a fresh-faced Caitlin Snow, the soft crinkles around her eyes betraying how happy she is to see him.

His heart picks up a beat; he can hardly believe this is actually happening. "Hi."

Caitlin's eyes tick down his chest. "You walked?"

"Ran," he lets out and rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah."

"Come on in," Caitlin says, and he pushes past her in the doorway, over the threshold of the Snow residence. He half expects some epic soundtrack to start to mark this momentous occasion, but to his surprise it's much like walking into any other house.

There are a few more rooms than his, given her family's bigger; there's a staircase leading to the first floor to his right, a dining room beyond it, a large living room to his left. Down the end of the hallway he sees a doorway that leads into the kitchen. It's all extremely— _homey_ , and he's not sure what else he expected.

Caitlin, too, looks different, dressed in a black dress with an uneven hem, a slouchy cardigan thrown over her shoulders, big slippers on her feet, her outfit devoid the bright colors she wears at school. But no less beautiful. It's embarrassing to realize, something Iris knew was coming, but Caitlin is any other girl, like he's any other boy. So why wouldn't he be able to talk to her?

"Charlie," Caitlin calls.

He makes a half turn towards the living room, where Caitlin's little brother sits cross-legged on the rug, a book open in his lap; the dark color of his shirt makes him near impossible to distinguish from the rest of the room. He's seen Caitlin with her brother at the mall a few times; coming out of a toy store, or having ice cream together, holding hands going from one place to the other—he must be about five or six by now.

"This is Barry. My lab partner at school. Can you say 'hi'?"

"Hi," the boy says, without looking up from his book.

Caitlin turns to him, palms of her hands rubbing together, a small grimace pulling her mouth to one side. "He's shy." She shrugs in the sparse space she claims, and behind the words he hears a whole world of hurt no one ever talks about. It hasn't been easy on Caitlin. He can't imagine losing what she has.

"What are you reading there, bud?" he asks, taking a chance when he closes the distance between him and the boy, crouching down next to him, eyes raking over the pages; he recognizes the comic easily. "The Flash, huh? You read _Rebirth_ yet?"

Charlie shakes his head.

"I'll bring it over sometime."

Charlie's eyes snap up at him so fast he sees double, and he's granted a smile; a small victory. He can't imagine what it must've been like for a boy as young as Charlie, losing a mom, left only with his dad and older sister. The few times he saw them out and about together the Snows seemed like a tightknit family; at the park playing hide and seek, out to dinner together. They were always smiling, always having the time of their lives without knowing how much or how little time they had left. This was long before girls held any interest for him. Long before this massive crush.

"Why does it not surprise me you're into comic books?" Caitlin crosses her arms over her chest as he stands again.

He looks at her, but she closes her eyes, and for a second or two he's lost. Does Caitlin imagine things about him? Does she know him well enough to not be surprised by certain aspects of his personality?

"I'm sorry," she stammers. "I wasn't implying that was a bad thing."

He smiles slowly. "More of a little brother thing to you?"

"Yeah," Caitlin breathes. "Shall we?"

He follows her across the hallway into the dining room, where her books lie in a pile on one corner of the table, a few bowls of chips in a neat line off to one side.

"I got some snacks out too. Least I could do after I changed our plans."

"Hey, no, I understand." He sits down as directed at the head of the table, Caitlin at the corner to his left, and he's surprised by how easy this is. He's still breathing, though excitement has set his hairs on end, but there's no need for this to be weird or awkward. They're here to study; he's good at that. "My dad gets called out in the middle of the night all the time."

"He's an MD, right?"

He nods. Caitlin's dad worked as a paramedic for Central City General.

"Any ambitions to follow in his footsteps?"

"If it were up to him, definitely." He grins. "I'm not sure yet. Going into research seems pretty interesting too."

"You should talk to Dr Wells." Caitlin raises an eyebrow, as if all the wisdom of the world has been bestowed on her and she's quite content to share her knowledge—she's not a know-it-all or a showoff, but this girl knows she has a brain. "He really helped me narrow things down."

"I will. Thanks."

Caitlin smiles and pulls her books closer, opening them to the appropriate chapters, and folds her hands together on top. "So, any part of the test you're worried about? You said something about electromagnetic interaction?"

"And here I thought we'd be aligning forces."

"We are." Caitlin giggles. "I'm just keeping you on your toes."

This idea in his dad's mind that he and Caitlin are somehow enemies sprouted from Caitlin's competitive streak. Dr Wells often had to calm her down with a composed, "It's not a competition, Miss Snow," whenever she got overzealous about an experiment or a test or she finished her extra credit assignments ahead of time; though he followed that up with a proud fatherly smile. If Dr Wells had managed to get him more excited over math and science by simply affirming that his passions were worth pursuing, then Caitlin definitely activated his own competitiveness. She likes to win. _A lot_.

For the past two years she's beaten him in point-grade average in everything but English Literature; he wasn't top of the class, but he consistently got higher grades than she did, and he noticed that small ounce of frustration every time they got back an essay, and she asked him about his grade, and he (almost embarrassedly) had to tell her he scored higher than she did. And he'd probably be smug about it if her frustration weren't so damn adorable. There were a lot of things to fall in love with in Caitlin Snow.

In truth, neither of them needed help studying for this particular test; they both knew to expect the best from each other.

Caitlin's phone vibrates a 5° angle to the left on the table; she promptly commands her phone to ignore the text.

"It's Ronnie." She shrugs. "He's been trying to get me to come to this party."

"I don't want to keep you from anything," he blurts out, foolishly proud that her time with him takes precedence over her time with Ronnie.

"You're not." Caitlin smiles softly. "You're keeping me focused. Besides, I wouldn't want to lose first place because I decided to go to a party rather than revise."

"Is that a challenge, Snow?"

His eyes narrow, .2 seconds before he realizes what came out of his mouth and he goes full caveman again.

"I mean, Caitlin, _Cait_ , god—"

"I like that." Caitlin laughs, bouncing in her chair. "I should get used to people calling me _Dr_ Snow."

And right there in that moment he loses all control of his respiratory system. His problem isn't talking to Caitlin, his problem is that he assigns value to each and every single one of their interactions and somehow constructs his sentences around the things _he thinks Caitlin wants to hear_. But as time has proven, as this conversation proves right now, he doesn't know Caitlin well enough to make those kinds of assumptions. She likes the way he talks.

Caitlin chews at her lower lip. "Why don't we make it a bet?"

His eyebrows rise. "A bet?"

"If I get higher grades you have to come to Ronnie's party on Friday. You could bring Iris."

His eyes flicker down to the table, from his pencil to his notes and back again. He's pretty sure he's setting himself up for something; there's no way he's going to magically score higher than Caitlin on this test. "And if I win?"

Caitlin purses her lips, leaving him no room whatsoever to breathe. "Make your case."

At the sound of those three words his brain short circuits. In only a few seconds' span he thinks up about three million things he could bet for, all discounted because they either make him sound like the jerk of the century, or a complete loser: _let me kiss you_? _leave Ronnie_? _suffer through more study dates_? _do my English Lit homework for two weeks_? _be my girlfriend_?

His mouth thankfully decides on, "Can I think about it?"

"Sure."

They dive into their books. They divide all the material in different sections and review their notes, summarize and make flashcards, after which they quiz each other. Caitlin's quick on her feet and asks questions the material doesn't require, which makes him think Caitlin's done additional research in the library; that must be why she always has a leg up on him. Not this time though, she's allowing him a peek into her study methods and train of thought, and he's left to wonder exactly why. Caitlin doesn't owe him her time or her attention; they've only ever been lab partners, not friends.

They pause after an hour so Caitlin can get Charlie to bed; the boy runs over and halts outside the living room, waving at him. Caitlin smiles at him, then down at her little brother as she takes his hand to walk him up the stairs. No matter how their bet turns out, he accomplished something tonight. He got a little closer to a person he admires, proved he wasn't entirely incapable of charming a girl without hitting her over the head with a wooden club. That kind of blunt force trauma is more Tony's style.

He takes in some of the rest of the house from his vantage point—the shoes by the door as neatly organized as the snack bowls, and he's reminded of the habits he inherited from his parents; he wonders if Caitlin got that from her mom or her dad, if not a little of both. There are a lot of pictures, too, of Charlie, of Caitlin, of the entire family on holiday at the beach, a younger Caitlin with pigtails and a flower crown made of daisies in her hair. A lot of pictures of Caitlin's mom. He never met Caroline Snow, but he wishes he had. He bets she was one hell of a woman.

"There. He went down without a fuss." Caitlin joins him in the living room again. "You have a way with him."

He shrugs. "I just happen to speak nerd, that's all."

"Careful." Caitlin pokes at his arm. "That's my baby brother you're talking about."

They spend another hour and a half diligently studying, Caitlin explaining the finer points of galvanic cell anatomy and he helps by reminding her of all the experiments they did in class; Caitlin has detailed notes on everything, but his visual aids get them through the material more efficiently.

"My eyes hurt," Caitlin admits at long last, when all the words on the pages have long since started blurring into gibberish.

"My _brain_ hurts."

Caitlin leans back in her chair. "You know the brain is the one organ in the human body that can't actually feel pain."

He chuckles. "I do know that."

That's his Caitlin, always claiming the last word.

"I think we should call it a night."

He nods and stifles a yawn, quietly collecting his stuff while Caitlin carries the snack bowls back to the kitchen. It must be hard, he thinks idly, being the only woman in the house now, taking care of Charlie when her dad's at work, taking care of her dad to some extent too, he suspects, and still keep up her grades. He doubts Caitlin Snow will ever cease to amaze him.

She shows him the way out, and they both linger in the doorway, the sky outside dark save for the stars dotted in its canvas.

Caitlin settles against the doorframe, her eyes glazing over. "Thank you for this, Barry."

"I didn't do anything."

"I'm serious." She smiles, her tiredness showing around the corners of her eyes. "If it weren't for you I would've had to study alone, or go to a party I didn't want to go to." She wrinkles her nose. "It was one of Tony's. He's a brute."

He nods, shifting from one leg to the other. Hesitation welds him in place; he wants to ask her about Charlie and her dad and Ronnie, about how they all factor into her life, about how she's feeling juggling so many different things, about why she'd chosen today of all the days littered between them to notice him and give him a chance. About whether or not he has a shot with her. But those are questions for another time, another day, perhaps some of them best kept to himself.

He says, "A real caveman."

"As good a word as any." Caitlin laughs, before she leans her head against the doorframe, making him aware of how tired their study session has left him too. "Goodnight, Barry."

He smiles softly, retreating onto the porch. "Night, Cait."

The door closes, and he stares at it until the light behind it dims, the sounds of late evening bearing down on him ever so slowly. "Sweet dreams," he whispers, hiding a smile as he picks at his lips. All in all, today went a whole lot different than he thought it would; if it weren't for Caitlin saying yes he would've studied alone, taken Krypto out for a walk, maybe watched some television with his mom and dad.

Now he spent an entire night with a girl he has a crush on, and he'll more than likely be attending her boyfriend's party on Friday. Just in case though, he should get thinking about his part of the bet.

He walks home alone, and though tired, there's a trip in his step that wasn't there before.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	2. Chapter 2

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter two

.

.

Early summer reaches through the paned windows of Iris' bedroom, rays of sunlight playing over his chemistry notes in whimsical patterns, though none move so whimsically as his eyes, continually jumping from one unrelated word to the next.

Two days after his study date with Caitlin he still reels at the thought that they'd been in the same room alone together, that he'd been to her house without any elaborate invitation or condition attached to it. He'd simply asked her to study with him. Every time he closes his eyes he vividly recalls how her curls slipped from behind her right ear, fell like a curtain over her face, and the delicate finger that pushed it back behind her ear again.

"You bet her you could get higher grades?" Iris sits down on her bed, a fresh stick of red licorice she brought up from the kitchen between her teeth. "You really are a nerd."

"First of all, it was her idea." He catches her eyes over the rim of his chemistry book, sagged back in the large beanbag by Iris' tiny desk, trying his best not to sound offended. He considers his nerd-hood a source of pride, one he draws strength from, because in about a year from now it'll get him into a great college, and decide his future. "Second, you've known I'm a nerd our entire lives."

"True," Iris affirms, while she busies herself with a small pile of flyers. "So, what if you win the bet?"

"I don't know." He rubs at his temple, the skin worn from all the worrying he's been doing since coming home from Caitlin's. There's no doubt it'd been one of the best study dates he's ever had, but their bet now hung over his head like some ironic Damocles' sword, from a precarious thread. Sudden death. His choice might make or break their relationship. "I should make it something good, right? I mean, I might never get this opportunity again. God knows why she agreed to it in the first place."

"Do you ever hear yourself?" Iris raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Stop putting yourself down. It's not attractive."

"You know, just because you're dating one of the Olympic Gods—"

A pillow hits him square in the face, uncontainable laughter bubbling in his chest.

"Barry Allen, we agreed not to poke fun at my extremely good looking college boyfriend."

They both laugh and return to their books, but not before sneaking each other a mischievous glance. He promised Iris several months ago he wouldn't do what her dad's been doing since she met Eddie: making fun of his good looks, smooth talking, or the fact that he's a star athlete with an actual brain.

It was Joe's way of disguising he didn't approve of Iris dating a boy three years older, but not saying it in so many words; Iris would either pitch a fit or give her dad a prolonged silent treatment. Last time she did it lasted two weeks—ever since grounding Iris for her junior prom for sneaking out after curfew, Joe's careful about the ways in which he disapproves of her boyfriends.

Eddie's a decent guy; he knew he was good looking and had a golden boy status at his fraternity, but he was also respectful and just, and made Iris happy. The two of them met at one of the football team's away games, a friendly match meant to strengthen the bond between the Mammoths and the Timberwolves. If he could believe Iris—which he did, if not only out of fear of getting kicked in the shins—the moment her eyes met Eddie's something sparked neither of them could deny. Cheesy as it sounded, they did have great chemistry.

"Maybe you should ask her out to dinner."

His eyes shoot up, quickly locating Iris' brown ones, one of her eyebrows arched in question. Why would he ask Caitlin out to dinner? In the entire realm of possibilities he had considered since last night, asking Caitlin out hadn't been among them. Unless he considered the countless 'be my girlfriend' fantasies. But those were nothing more than that, fantasies.

"Like, on a date?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Because she has a boyfriend?"

A boyfriend _twice his size_ with a whole bunch of oversized friends who could stuff him into a random locker and lose the combination. If Ronnie Raymond ever got wind that he liked his girlfriend he's loath to think where the police might find his body. If they ever did at all.

"Whom she ditched to spend the night with you," Iris argues, "studying for a chemistry test. I don't know about you but I can think of about a dozen other ways I'd rather spend my night."

"A chemistry test we're both highly invested in."

Iris knows how competitive Caitlin can be; they take French together. Neither of them was particularly good at French, but that didn't stop them from working hard. Caitlin had wanted a closer look at his study methods, that's all. At least that's what the tiniest voice of doubt at the back of his mind keeps whispering.

"I love that you believe in me, Iris, but I think you may be overestimating my appeal."

Iris rolls her eyes, grabbing the next flyer in the small pile on her bed. "Whatever."

Picking at his lips he fails to focus on his chemistry notes again, too preoccupied by the singular thought. What if he asked Caitlin out to dinner? It didn't have to mean anything, he's had dinner with Iris, but the real question landed on his ability to form coherent sentences over breadsticks and pasta. What would they even talk about? He knew practically nothing about Caitlin's life outside of school, though that would arguably be a great reason to ask her out to dinner— _lord_ , why's he making this so hard?

"Are those all your college brochures?" He lifts out of the beanbag and sits down on Iris' bed, studying the myriad of flyers now stacked in different piles on top of the sheets, each of them considered, then either discarded or accepted as possible schools to apply to. Iris dreamed of attending Drake after the summer, and she'd more than likely get in, but she'd applied to a lot of safety schools too. She wouldn't be able to relax without them.

"Yeah, I'm throwing some out. It's in fate's hands now." Iris grabs a pile and tosses it at the trashcan, missing its intended target. "The applications fees pretty much bankrupted me."

"Somehow I doubt that."

Between her job at the pet store over the weekend and her insane shifts at a local coffee shop Iris had saved more money in three years than he had his entire life—Iris knew her dad couldn't afford to send her to college on a detective's salary, and while she would get a loan she decided a long time ago she'd pay some of her own way. After thirteen years Iris West still surprised him at every turn. His work ethic would never come close to rivaling hers.

"Is it weird graduating high school while Eddie graduates college?"

Iris' subtle shrug tells him enough: whether she gets into Drake or not they haven't talked about what Eddie will do after he graduates. They've only been dating for a few months and Eddie lives relatively close by—after the summer that'll most likely change. It's funny to him how he's the one who's had that conversation with a girlfriend, despite college not being an immediate worry.

Felicity had known what she wanted too—MIT or nothing—and it'd caused quite a few stir-ups during the year they dated. She never asked him to follow her or considered that he would. In a way it was a comfort to know his decision wouldn't depend on Felicity's, but Felicity and his happiness had gotten so entangled that he never understood how it couldn't—how could he not want to be with Felicity after they graduated? How could their lives move apart when they could hardly spend half a day without each other?

"We're not super serious yet. Anything can still happen between now and then," Iris says. "He supports my decisions, and he believes in me. That's a really big thing."

"You know I believe in you too, right?"

Iris ruffles through his hair. "I think you might be underestimating your appeal, Barry Allen."

He can talk to girls. Of course he can talk to girls. They're not unfathomable creatures who aren't dealing with the exact same insecurities everyone else is, nor are they mythical or mysterious when no one makes them out to be. But he has placed Caitlin on a pedestal, her scientific mind rivaling his own, and while Felicity had brains to spare, while she knew the ins and outs of computers and computer systems, for some reason he deemed Caitlin far more unreachable to him. Maybe because somewhere in the wake of his break-up with Felicity, one neither of them wanted to face until the day of her leaving started fast approaching, he'd decided it was far easier to pine after Caitlin from afar than opening himself up to that again.

Now, months after Felicity's move to Starling City, he misses the trust and intimacy more than the cute blonde who'd meant the world to him. Moving on seemed such an odd thing after a relationship he thought would last well past high school, but these past few months proved it real. In his loneliest moments—even though they were rare—he accepted that love passed, that it came and went like much else in life, that the romantic notion of staying in love was nothing but a fantasy too. In his most delusional moments, now often fantasies that involved Caitlin, love still conquered all.

.

.

Much like his nerves conquer him all over again when he sees Caitlin in class the next day, her floral skater dress as short as Iris' cheerleading outfit, the top covered by a fluffy blue sweater that makes him want to pull her into a hug—he blinks down at the black slab of the table he shares with Caitlin, watching her shimmy into the high chair from the corner of his eye. Dopamine, oxytocin and cortisol strand together in his veins and get his heart racing, his hands sweaty, one of his feet tapping impatiently up and down.

"Ready to be a sad second placement again, Allen?" Caitlin asks, and he looks up to meet with her beaming smile, the soft cutesie lines around her eyes, a subtle crinkle in her nose and his face falls underneath the weight of his surprise, the quiet shock that Caitlin's _teasing him now_.

What's gotten into her? Had their study date broken the ice?

Before his brain gets the chance to even think about a proper reply Dr Wells wheels into the classroom, smiling affectionately. "Remember, Miss Snow, it's not a competition."

Dr Wells signals Patty Spivot to start passing out the test papers, all placed face-down in front of them.

Caitlin bounces in her seat. "Actually, we made it one."

"Is that so?" Dr Wells glances at him, reserving the same affectionate smile for his second favorite student. In truth Dr Wells never plays favorites—he appreciates hard work and has great respect for natural talent, but he won't hesitate cultivating potential when he sees it either. At least two others taking AP Chemistry this year started at Dr Wells' insistence and have so far flourished under his guidance. Secretly though, he revels in the sort of healthy competition he and Caitlin have going.

"If I get the highest score Barry is coming to Ronnie's party," Caitlin declares with a certain amount of pride, but considering how she'd ditched Ronnie yesterday he's unsure where this excitement comes from—parties aren't his idea of fun, either. Could it be Caitlin's looking forward to spending time with him?

"And if not?"

"He hasn't decided." Caitlin shrugs. "A sure sign of defeat, if you ask me."

His jaw drops at Caitlin's continued teasing, followed by a small huff of a laugh that blooms red into his cheeks. He could most definitely get used to this, even if he fails to construct a proper reply.

"You have your work cut out for you, Mr. Allen." Dr Wells smiles, before pulling his sleeve back to check the time. "Everyone, you have exactly 45 minutes to outdo yourselves. You may begin."

The hushed flutter of a dozen sheets of paper wafts through the classroom, one of the sinks dripping to his right, the air permeated with a collective intake of breath: most of them can tell from a cursory glance whether or not the test will be passable—given the amount of relieved sighs that follow, no one had chosen to underestimate Dr Wells.

"Those who are about to die..." he hears Hartley sigh behind him, his lab partner Cisco quietly sniggering, "... _salute you_."

He doesn't need to turn around to see the quick fist bump they exchange before starting their hard labor.

The test, as most of Dr Wells' tests go, proves far more challenging than he expected; he considers it a blessing he asked Caitlin to study with him because her extra research definitely paid off. It was all part of Dr Wells' emphasis on expanding their knowledge beyond what the textbooks provided, because life, let alone college, would never be that clean cut. He demanded nothing but the utmost of all his students, but his rigor, professionalism, and the occasional chemistry pun earned him a lot of respect from his students and the faculty at large.

More than a few sighs blow through the classroom in the forty-five minutes that follow, barely registering through his intense focus—he rereads every question three times before sculpting an answer. Experience has taught him Dr Wells likes the occasional trick question or brainteaser and those that suss them out often get extra credit. Those that don't remain none the wiser.

It isn't until the bell rings and shakes him out of his concentration that he chances a look at Caitlin, her pen laying neatly next to her test, which she's meticulously rereading for any errors. Never in his three years since they became lab partners has he caught her correcting a single thing. It's unusual for teachers to keep pairing the same people in class, but even they had come to the conclusion that he and Caitlin matched each other academically and only a handful of others measured up; it's the same for Hartley and Cisco—mostly because Cisco's the only one who can deal with Hartley's sparkling personality.

"Mr. Allen, Miss Snow," Dr Wells calls as they're gathering their things. "I'll do my best to correct your tests first."

"Thank you, Dr Wells," he says, "have a nice day."

Dr Wells waves a hand. "Get out of here."

He and Caitlin laugh in unison and exit the room, falling into step next to each other, headed for Caitlin's locker right outside the chemistry lab, all rather organically. They work together well, know each other's rhythm and speed, strengths and weaknesses, and often complement each other in their science classes. Why it's taken them so long to strike up a conversation—well, he can guess; their names were Felicity and Ronnie.

"That went really well," Caitlin breathes gratefully, pulling some books out of her locker.

"I think studying together really paid off." He nods, picking at his lips as he prepares to strike his end of the deal. He's going to ask her out to dinner, as friends, because he desperately wants to make that work—friends with Caitlin Snow, who'd pass up that opportunity?

"So, I was thinking—" he starts, interrupted by the loud clatter of the football team crossing the hallway. He doubts they can do anything quietly, and who would, when they owned the school?

Ronnie makes his way over to them, any courage he might've had flitting across the field like a quarterback speeding towards the end zone.

"Hey, babe"—Ronnie wraps an arm around Caitlin's shoulders—"how'd your test go?"

"Aced it, of course." Caitlin beams up at Ronnie and brings their lips together in a quick kiss.

He averts his eyes, more out of a deep-seated need to not see the girl he has a crush on kissing her boyfriend than giving them their privacy.

But then Caitlin adds, "Oh, Ronnie, I want you to meet Barry," and he's forced to lock eyes with the quarterback, whose closest friend is none other than Tony Woodward, his junior high nightmare.

He and Ronnie haven't talked, in fact they've never even been introduced, unless he considered the amount of times he'd stolen Ronnie's girlfriend in his fantasies, and got beat up for his trouble. It's not a fantasy he wishes to see realized.

Ronnie offers him a smile. "About damn time."

His stomach churns. Football players don't tend to consort with his rung along the high school social ladder, unless maybe they were good at sports. How Caitlin, a self-professed science nerd, managed to escape fate and entered one of the higher echelons was anyone's guess.

"Nice to meet you, man," Ronnie says, "I've heard a lot about you."

And like that his discomfort with Ronnie pales in comparison to how his heart stutters around hearing those words. Caitlin talks about him outside of class? How often? To what extent? How long has this been going on? He hardly even minds when Caitlin gravitates closer to Ronnie and coaxes his arms around her, granting Ronnie the hug he'd craved upon seeing her earlier. _Because Caitlin talks about him_ _to her boyfriend_. Who also happens to be the quarterback. Of the football team. As in, all twenty-five of them.

His throat closes up.

"I hope it's okay," Caitlin says, pushing back against Ronnie's chest, "but I invited him to your party."

"The more the merrier." Ronnie nods, and looks at him. "You should bring Iris. We don't see enough of her since she got herself a boyfriend."

"I'll see what I can do."

"See you later, Barry." Caitlin smiles, and while he almost follows right behind that smile, while he'd want nothing more than to lose orbital velocity and hurtle straight for the surface of Planet Caitlin, he watches her leave with Ronnie—and he can't chase after a girl with a boyfriend. He can't pretend Ronnie's simply in the way, and he can most definitely not assume Caitlin doesn't know exactly what she's doing. She's a smart girl. She makes her own choices.

"Barry! Barry!" Cisco jumps between a few warm bodies to reach him, Hartley close behind. A sophomore, Cisco has been one of his closest friends at school and outside of it for a few years now. "Did I hear you're going to Ronnie's party?"

"Only if Caitlin beats me."

Cisco scoffs, "Yeah, but—" and raises his eyebrows suggestively, as if there isn't a single measure of probability his grades will be higher than Caitlin's. He's fairly confident, especially after studying alongside Caitlin yesterday, that they were more than evenly matched this time around.

"You won't win, man," Hartley chimes in, eyes dark behind his light rimmed glasses, gripping the strap of his shoulder bag tightly—Hartley often left him with the distinct impression that he was at any given time uncomfortable with his surroundings, offended when they didn't give way, or his skin abrasive against the oxygen in the air around him. He tolerated Hartley for Cisco's sake, because Hartley once managed to reduce his scientific pursuits to a desire to fall into Caitlin's good graces. They were friends now, _of a sort_.

"Caitlin Snow is like the Kobayashi Maru," Cisco says. "She's a no-win scenario."

He frowns. "I have no desire to win Caitlin."

"Of course, you do." Hartley rolls his eyes, swaying closer to Cisco, their shoulders bumping together. "Maybe not on a conscious level, but deep down we're all driven by the need to win a mate. It's a biological imperative."

Cisco glances at Hartley, frowning as his lips part. "What he means"—Cisco looks back at him—"is that she has a boyfriend. No girl's worth getting your ass kicked over."

He nods, and watches his friends droop off down the hallway, biting at his lip. Was Hartley right? Did he on some unconscious level harbor the same caveman-like desires as Tony Woodward? Did he strut around his scientific prowess in the hopes of winning Caitlin? That's not only demeaning toward Caitlin but paints him in a light he never wants to be caught in—maybe deep down he hides a dark sense of entitlement, maybe in some sick deluded way he felt more deserving than Ronnie, but he'd never voice those notions. In fact, he'd rather not have them near the surface now, brought up by Hartley's apt choice in words. He likes to think he's one of the nice guys, and that could very well include Ronnie Raymond. Who's he to say?

"What's a Kobayashi Maru?" Iris appears by his side like a genie out of a bottle, a welcome distraction from a train of thought he'd rather avoid. She sucks a lollipop into her mouth, the hard candy clattering against her teeth while she hooks their arms together. He and Iris fall into this even easier than he and Caitlin.

"It's from Star Trek. The training simulation?"

"Oh!" Iris perks up. "The one Chris Pine rigs."

"The one Kirk rigs," he corrects, vividly recalling the night they went out to watch the reboot and Iris had giddily clung to his arm all throughout the movie, because _didn't Chris Pine have diamonds for eyes?_ It'd been a small victory after years of trying to make Iris understand anything about Star Trek.

"Chris Pine," Iris persists.

He sighs and shakes his head, smiling at his best friend. Iris liked having the last word, same as Caitlin, and who's he to deny her?

.

.

Later that afternoon he comes home to an email from Felicity. They emailed each other a few times every week, managed a Skype call when they both found the time, and he cherished those moments. Talking to Felicity came easy; she didn't expect him to be The Guy and he didn't expect her to be The Girl, two entities clearly defined by society with their own prototypical traits—they often talked like they were still an 'us', like they'd gotten to know each other intimately in every way and that'd seeped into their bones, into their DNA, and remade them into people who could talk about anything without the threat of embarrassment.

Their break-up notwithstanding, Felicity remains one of his closest friends, if not only because they broke up more out of necessity than personal choice. They had their disagreements, mostly to do with where they both saw themselves and their relationship after high school, but he never lost Felicity, nor did she lose him. In a way, he thinks they might even still love each other.

He double-clicks the amusing subject line, Felicity's email appearing as a smaller pop-up.

.

 _ **from:** hackergrl67_

 _ **to:** barry allen_

 _ **subject:** This is your overlord, Felicity Smoak! [cue the Imperial March]_

 _Hey Barr,_

 _Don't know if you've heard but my aunt Sue's in the hospital L I'm visiting her next weekend and wondered if maybe I could stay at yours? Rather not spend money on a hotel or motel. It'd be a load off my mom's mind too. Can you let me know asap?_

 _Love,_

 _Your hot ex._

.

He laughs at Felicity's message for a good five minutes, reading and rereading the finer details of the email, and runs downstairs to check with his mom. He doesn't expect either of his parents to say no, but it's better to make sure they haven't made other plans. They don't mind Felicity visiting, in fact he'd hazard to say they love her like a daughter, but he suspects that had a lot more to do with her being his first serious girlfriend rather than seeing her as part of the family.

He replies with a short email of his own:

.

 _ **from:** barry allen_

 _ **to:** hackergrl67_

 _ **subject:** This is your humble servant, Barry Allen._

 _Hello Hot Ex,_

 _I'm sorry to hear about your aunt Sue L but can I say I'm a little excited about seeing you again?_

 _Of course you can stay at my house. Mom says we'll come pick you up at the train station, so let me know when you'll be here._

 _Talk soon,_

 _A lesser man since you've been gone._

.

It won't be the first time Felicity stays over; last summer, not long after their break-up, they spent a few days weighing the pros and cons of a long distance relationship yet again—they'd talked about it before Felicity moved and decided against it, and came to the same conclusion.

Somewhere along the way, they'd fallen out of love. Maybe because they both figured they had to. Maybe because they weren't right for each other. He's yet to decide which.

.

.

That Friday night Iris picks him up in her tiny red car. Dr Wells had informed him and Caitlin this morning that while Barry had clearly stepped it up a notch, Caitlin still scored higher than him.

So here he was, dressed for Ronnie's party after fussing over his outfit the better part of half an hour. He decided against wearing a jacket but went back and forth on whether or not to add a button-down over his t-shirt, and exactly which he should wear. Losing to Caitlin yet again wouldn't bother him so much if it hadn't been attached to a well thought out bet—he's not a sore loser, not like Caitlin is, and frankly it's this party that'll be the real challenge. He's not fast on his feet in social settings, he's not athletic and knows little about sports, and would hardly be considered funny outside the safe vestiges of his science jokes. He can't even dance properly, courtesy of his last two growth spurts.

"What are you wearing?" Iris eyes his meticulously composed outfit while he fits his legs in front of the passenger seat.

Looking down at his shirt again, the colorful block lettering outlining a perfectly understandable chemistry pun, he can't imagine what's wrong with it. Maybe it hadn't been the right choice after all, maybe he should've gone with the blue shirt his mom suggested, or the red perhaps; he looked great in red. "You bought me this."

"Not to wear to the biggest social event of your high school career."

"Great." He sighs, throwing his head back. As if he needed anyone else pointing out what an unmitigated disaster tonight could become. Caitlin may have had the best intentions asking him, but she might as well have asked him to recite Shakespeare in front of the entire student body. Naked. "Thanks for that."

"You'll do fine." Iris pats his leg, driving them across town to Ronnie's house. "You were invited by Caitlin Snow herself."

Even passed off as a joke the thought doesn't comfort him. A kegger isn't exactly his scene and the fact that Caitlin invited him still confounds him. All this because he mustered up the courage to ask her to study with him? If he'd known that's all it took he would've asked her a long time ago; two years ago when Dr Wells issued his first test and he thought he'd drop dead from the level of anxiety jittering through his veins; or finals, last year, because studying with Hartley and Felicity together had proven challenging, to say the least. Hartley thrived on arguing about the finer points of asymptotic behavior until Felicity's head spun and she'd pout at him to make Hartley stop—easier said than done when up against a math genius.

"Whom I can't seem to beat," he muses, stringing his fingers together in his lap. He has no need to beat Caitlin at anything, much like he feels no need to own her, no matter what Hartley liked to claim. He'll show his face at this party, try and have some fun, maybe find some time to talk to Caitlin. That's all he'd like from tonight.

"Yeah, what's up with that? I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius."

"I am." He cocks an eyebrow, and laughs. "There just isn't a word for what Caitlin is."

Ronnie lived in one of the richer parts of town, where storefronts and warehouses gave way to large cul-de-sacs surrounded by impressive mansions. The front lawn of the modern two-story house they pull up to stands packed with people whose faces he fails to recognize—it stands to reason word of this party spread well beyond the school, and it fills him with more dread. If there are more people he's less likely to run into Caitlin. If she even wants to see him at all.

He follows Iris inside the house, his best friend weaving through the crowd far more gracefully than he does—according to his father the first thing to do when arriving at a party should be greeting the host, but he has no idea where they'll find Ronnie in this chaos. People line the hallways left and right and litter all the rooms of the house, loud music making it impossible to be heard by anyone.

But he doesn't need to hear anything to notice her.

Caitlin Eleanor Snow.

He catches her coming down the stairs, wearing a black dress down to her knees embroidered with sequins, her hair styled in long curls, like she's been to the beach. She waves at him and smiles and he swears a whole world opens in his chest; she's speckled in every color of the spectrum and everything else blurs into a boring gray. What he wouldn't give to be the one to meet her at the bottom of the stairs, pick her up in his arms and kiss her. Sadly that honor goes to Ronnie Raymond, yet again.

Iris tugs at his sleeve. "You're drooling."

He draws the back of his hand over his mouth involuntarily, a Pavlovian response brought on by his own special brand of awkward. He doesn't mean to stare, he never does, but when it comes to Caitlin it's often hard not to.

"Here." Iris pushes a beer into his hand. "Go mingle."

He sighs. What is he doing here? What made Caitlin think he'd have fun at a party thrown by her boyfriend? He should be at home with his computer, catching up on the latest episode of _Dark Matter_ and _Killjoys_ , not alone in rooms filled to the brim with people. He's aware that losing a bet shouldn't necessarily land him in a comfortable situation but he got the impression Caitlin wanted him here, or that she thought she'd be doing him a favor. Only goes to show how little they know each other.

He scours the party for familiar faces for a few minutes, and while he spots Patty and Jax, Shawna and Lisa, he secludes himself to a quiet corner of the study, where the music isn't quite so loud and he can wait out his time. Iris will be at least an hour or two and he'd hate to leave without her, so this corner will do fine to lick his wounded pride.

He's always so quick to assume things are different than what they really are; Caitlin's just his lab partner, and while they get along, while they might even be friends, she's never going to see him as anything else. Why would she, with the school's quarterback on her arm? But that line of reasoning reduces her to a high school stereotype she's decidedly not; she's a nerd who's in with the jocks, a well spoken beautiful girl who nearly flunks Phys Ed every other semester because of her poor upper body strength and uncoordinated limbs. She's not what anyone says she is. So why would she be anything like the girl in his dreams?

"Hey, Allen. What does your shirt say?"

He looks up to meet two pairs of eyes, Len and his friend Mick, older brothers to two girls a few grades below him—they may look tough with their short cropped hair and dark clothes, but they're harmless. They only show up at these parties to make sure their little sisters don't get in any trouble, even though both those sisters could probably kick their asses.

"It's a chemistry joke," he answers, finally convinced he made the right decision wearing Iris' birthday present. "Ar is the symbol for Argon, so if you read it out..."

"I tell bad chemistry jokes because all the good ones _Are Gone_!" Mick reads the blue and green neon printed on his shirt, and slaps hard at his shoulder, rattling his bones. "That's hilarious!"

Len pulls up a chair and pushes another beer into his hand. "What else you got?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "Chemistry jokes?"

Len shrugs sourly. "Haven't got anything better to do."

It's the first time anyone has willingly sat through more than three of his jokes, but for the next hour or so he entertains Len and Mick with about every chemistry pun he ever learned— _Did you hear Oxygen went on a date with Potassium? It went OK_ ; _If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate_ ; _Why can you never trust atoms? They make up everything!_ He has to explain a few of them to Mick in greater detail, but Len's amused throughout, though a lot more sober in his laughter.

"Len, Mick"—Iris' voice draws him out of a carefully worded Silver Surfer and Iron Man alloy joke—"mind if I borrow Mr. Popular over here?"

Len raises his beer. "Anything for you, beautiful."

He hops off the heavy leather chair and over to Iris, a little unsteady on his legs. Iris hooks her arm in his and takes away his empty red cup. He must've had three or four of those by now, far too many for someone who rarely drinks—Felicity had raided her mom's liquor cabinet a few times, but they'd only ever gotten drunk once, and severely regretted it the morning after. He should probably drink a lot of water before he heads to bed later.

"Why aren't you out there looking for Caitlin?" Iris asks, pulling him into the crowd again, all somewhat swimming before his eyes. He assumed Caitlin was busy, or that she'd come to find him if she really wanted to see him. Even still he did his duty; he came to this party and even had some fun.

He can talk to her in class on Monday.

"This is not an opportunity you pass up, Barry Allen," Iris says. "Boyfriend or not, you need to remove your head from your own ass when it comes to Caitlin Snow."

"No really, Iris"—he scoffs—"tell me what you really think."

"It's true." Iris' eyes set around an apology, even though her words are anything but. "If you don't start seeing her like a real girl you'll end up heartbroken over someone you're not even dating."

He'd hazard to say his heart's already in shambles, down in the dumps, melancholy and dejected, but that would sound a lot more convincing if he weren't drunk. At least Iris doesn't mean to hurt his feelings or tear his pride down any further; she's being the best friend he needs right now, and that includes bringing him to his senses where girls are concerned. If it weren't for Iris he might have never asked Felicity out; he'd still be the sad excuse of a boy who never had the pleasure of knowing someone as perfect as Felicity Smoak existed.

"There she is." Iris points out the window at the backyard, one lonesome figure clearly silhouetted against the dark. "Go!"

Iris all but shoves him out the door and he stumbles over his own two feet, nearly breaking his face colliding with a small angel statue. Somehow he straightens by the time he enters Caitlin's field of vision.

"Barry"—a smile magics itself along her lips—"Hi."

"Hey." He sits down next to her, eyes registering the empty red cup in her left hand, the slight downward slope of her shoulders, the general disinterested look in her eyes. Did she even want to come to this party herself? She'd avoided going to Tony's earlier this week, using their study date as an excuse—maybe Ronnie hadn't allowed her any excuses this time. "What are you doing out here?"

"Just getting some fresh air." Caitlin shrugs, and bumps their shoulders together. "Are you having fun?"

"Yeah." He shies away a smile, Caitlin's camaraderie chipping at his wounded pride. She enjoys his company.

Caitlin's eyes settle on his face while her smile grows bigger. "You don't sound very sure of that."

"Yeah, well"—he chuckles—"it's not exactly my scene."

"I know what you mean." Caitlin nods and stares out in front of her, a hint of dejection touching her face.

More than ever he wishes he could read her mind.

Where does she go when her eyes go out of focus? What worlds does she imagine? One where her mother's alive? One where she's not here tonight but in bed with a book? Or watching a movie with Charlie?

What about a world out there in the hypothetical multiverse where he might stand a chance with her?

Caitlin shakes out of her stupor and turns her head. "Love your shirt, by the way."

"Thanks." He rests his elbows on his knees. "Iris seemed to think it wouldn't win me any points."

Caitlin winks. "You know those only count in class."

Good God, what he wouldn't give to keep up with this girl. "And I'm well aware you win most of those."

"Just out of curiosity." Caitlin purses her lips. "What would you have made me do if you'd won?"

"I would have asked you out."

Caitlin blinks. "What?"

"Doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"

He doesn't realize the full extent of what he let slip until Caitlin's subtle, "You're serious," echoes in the ensuing silence. A silence that trips along every stupid thing he's ever said or thought, every offensive remark or alpha male behavior.

His heart drops to his stomach.

What did he just say? And why is he stuttering, "Y-yeah" when he can easily explain this? It wasn't meant to be a date, he would never assume she'd do that to Ronnie nor would he want her to betray her feelings for him. For all he knows Ronnie's a standup guy who he's only ever cast as the big bad of his high school misadventures because he fit the part.

"Barry, even if—" Caitlin stands up. "You could have never asked me out. I'm with Ronnie."

And even after all that, after he decidedly knows he should stop speaking, all his lips do is, "Yeah, but—"

"But what?" Caitlin's eyes go wide, and he has an answer, he has the next unfortunate thing lined up to answer her question, but Caitlin beats him to it. "He's just a dumb jock?" she says, the words someone else's, his own perhaps, and in her eyes he can read it so clearly; _Barry, why? You were meant to be the nice guy_.

Who else has asked her this? Who else questions her and Ronnie's relationship? Her anger's so dazzling but sad, because who would question Caitlin's judgment?

"He doesn't love me?" Caitlin rants. "What do you see in him?"

"What _do you_ see in him?"

Holy. Hell. Is this why people avoided alcohol?

Caitlin's lips press together in a tight line. "He's not a caveman."

The reproach lands not unlike Caitlin intended, he suspects, right at the center of his insecurities. He's no different than the next horny teenager who beats at his chest and shows his teeth, all in the hopes of winning a prize.

"Then why did you—" He scrambles up, not the nice guy but as bad as the next delusional tool who thinks he's entitled to someone's love and care. "Why did you agree to study with me?"

"Because you _asked_ me."

It's as simple as it is sobering. He asked Caitlin to study with him and she agreed; just because he's set up this elaborate fantasy scenario where that means Caitlin Snow falls for him the same way he's crazy about her doesn't mean it'll come true. That doesn't mean Caitlin even sees him that way. She has a boyfriend, what's he thinking? Why did he even come here tonight? Bet or not, he's not part of this crowd, he's not popular, he's not athletic, he can't even dance. And he shouldn't have drunk so much beer, either.

He's a loser, that's what. One sad delusional loser.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	3. Chapter 3

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter three

.

.

Skies overcast over the weekend, rain disrupting picnics in the park and lounging out by the lake, and miserable doesn't quite cover the range of emotions he goes through. He nurses his hangover with a lot of water and sleep, much to his father's delight—his parents never set a whole lot of restrictions for him, mostly because he didn't go out much and, when he did, it rarely involved underage drinking, and early that Saturday he suspects his parents adopt the good old _let the children make their own mistakes_. His mistake, it turns out, involved a whole lot more than too many beers.

What had he done?

Not only had he admitted to wanting to ask Caitlin out, he'd done it in the most inappropriate and immature way possible—drunk at a party when she'd clearly been vulnerable. On top of that he'd insulted her relationship with Ronnie. How would he ever face her again? How would he walk the hallways at school without constantly looking over his shoulder in fear of what Ronnie might do? Will Caitlin tell Ronnie about what happened?

Sunday morning his mom kisses his hair sitting down next to him at breakfast; once the headache subsided and he'd had some time to stew in a wide variety of anger, disappointment and defeat he'd gathered the courage to tell his parents what happened. It would be easy for them to give him a speech about underage drinking or ground him for a week, but they don't. He recounts his tale of woe in as much detail as he can—the sad slope to Caitlin's shoulders, her empty red cup, her sudden anger at his callous disregard of Ronnie—and it's all rather a lot to take. Maybe his parents consider that punishment enough.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as you think it is, honey."

He draws a spoon back and forth through his cereal, gone soggy after ten minutes of sitting idle. "I was a jerk."

"Then let this be a lesson, young man," his dad says, as sternly as Henry Allen can muster, which mostly means he uses his cautionary doctor's voice. "Drinking too much at any age can get you in a lot of trouble."

" _Henry_."

"No, I agree." He sags back in his chair, leaving his cereal where it is. He learned his lesson; he won't touch a drop of alcohol ever again, not near Caitlin, or anywhere else for that matter. What's the appeal anyway? Beer didn't even taste that spectacular. "I'm never drinking again."

His dad glances at his mom, clearly proud of what he achieved with a minimal amount of parenting, and returns his attention to the newspaper. Sunday mornings have been sacred in their family as far back as his memory can reach—it's the only day his dad doesn't see any patients at his practice and his mom has no obligations around the community, so they'd vowed long ago the whole family would be present at the breakfast table.

It's a tradition that fills him with warmth and safety, assures him that no matter what happens he'll have his parents' love and support. He couldn't imagine life without either of them.

"Caitlin's a nice girl, Barry." His mom pushes his hair back, the same way she did when he was younger and needed the comforting hand. Now it's often accompanied by two green melancholy eyes—identical to his—over her boy growing up so fast. He'd never deny her the touch though, nor himself the comfort. "I'm sure that once you talk things through things will return to normal. Just remember—"

"Never be too proud to apologize." He nods. "I know."

.

.

Blue skies turn and remain a dull gray all through Monday, and he disappoints his own expectations as well as his mother's faith in him.

Strange but true it's not his pride that gets in the way. He screwed up and he's all too aware of the fences he needs to mend, but as he sets foot on school grounds, as he enters the building and looks around, he could swear everyone's staring at him. No doubt it's his imagination, his worst fears come to life in his own mind, but it's enough to make him want to curl up in a corner and turn invisible.

Isn't the cornerback's glance in his direction too long to be considered friendly? Don't some of the cheerleaders fall mysteriously quiet when he passes them in the hallway? Doesn't the world revolve solely around him and his problems right now?

He avoids Hallway B because of Ronnie's locker, and he avoids most of Hallway C because of Caitlin's. Thing is, he can't avoid class or the fact that Caitlin's his lab partner, and he can't for the life of him figure out how all this got so messed up. Wasn't he a good guy? How hard is it to get over himself and do the right thing? He has no reason to assume Caitlin won't accept his apology, or deny him the relief of putting this whole ordeal behind them.

Yet when Caitlin shimmies into the seat next to him, arranges her notebook neatly next to the textbook, a pen and pencil aligned next to that, he's tongue-tied. What should he say? How should he say it? Does he barge in with an 'I'm sorry' and hope it's received the way he intended? There's so much more he wants to say beyond that apology and class hardly seems the place to do so. But if not now, then when?

He couldn't be trusted with anything that came out of his mouth Friday night and while he's no longer drunk he lacks the liquid courage to speak his mind now. To make matters worse, Dr Wells lectures an entire hour, preparing them for a Hess' law and calorimetry lab. Which means whether he likes it or not he'll be facing Caitlin tomorrow.

He and Caitlin sit side by side for an entire hour and don't look at each other once. Neither of them laughs at Dr Wells' jokes, but they do answer his questions as concisely as they can when called upon. No wink in each other's direction. No friendly competition.

He screwed up royally and if his hangover on Saturday hadn't been punishment enough this serves as first class personal torture. Because this is his fault, and according to most everyone it would be easy to fix, but he's too scared. He's never been more aware of Caitlin's body outlined against the air molecules his body touches too, never hotter under the collar than at the thought of never talking to her anymore, getting a new lab partner, never seeing her smile his way again. That scares him more than any potential beat downs Ronnie might make him suffer through.

Caitlin gets up out of her seat the moment the bell rings, and he drags his feet gathering his books into his backpack. Nausea stirs at the pit of his stomach, and he has trouble breathing.

"Didn't we have a talk about you staying away from Caitlin?" Cisco asks behind him, he and Hartley packing up their things too.

"I think your exact words were 'butt out'," he jokes, but the sentiment fails to convincingly reach the outskirts of his shame. He should've listened to their advice and left Caitlin alone, maybe not even gone to the party, but that didn't seem an option after he lost their bet fair and square. Then again, he didn't like thinking of Caitlin as a no-win scenario, or of Caitlin being in any way winnable, despite what his drunken ass may have assumed.

"Bartholomew," Hartley says, "we were just looking out for you."

He shrugs. "Guess you were right," he mutters, even though it's hard for him to admit. If he'd been sober Caitlin would've known the dinner wasn't meant to be a date, he would've told her that he hoped they could be friends, because they have so much in common and it would be a shame to spend the rest of their high school careers simply being lab partners. And that wish might be so strong because deep down he wishes they could be something more, but he can hardly change anything about that. Does anyone ever choose whom they're attracted to?

.

.

He wakes up on Tuesday to the sound of rain pelting against his bedroom window, as if some sick new soundtrack to his life. Dragging himself through his morning routine he showers, brushes his teeth, runs a quick hand through his hair, and rushes down the stairs in time to receive two slices of toast from his mom before he's out the door.

The fresh assault of rain shouldn't come as that big of a surprise after cursing it earlier, but in his haste he'd forgotten how appropriate the weather had gotten. It assures his mood plummets further.

"We'll be late!" Iris shouts from the car. She starts chattering about prom and homecoming as soon as he folds into the passenger seat, but he tunes her out for most of the drive; it's most un-best friend-like and it eats at him that he can't set aside his problems for two minutes to share in Iris' enthusiasm.

He told her what happened at the party. In fact, he'd never been more sober in his life than that drive back home—like his mom she'd told him not to worry, to apologize and move on, but that proved easier said than done.

"I just don't see the big deal," Iris repeats, after giving him an earful about not listening to her when she's talking about something as important as prom. He gets the vague impression he agreed to something in the car he hasn't fully considered the ramifications of, but that's a worry for later.

" _I was drunk, Iris_." He lowers his voice so no one else has to listen to him whine. Because that's what he's become. From _piner_ to whiner. "And I'm pretty sure she was too. People don't historically make the best decisions when they're drunk."

Iris looks him up and down, her eyes setting around that concerned mother hen stare she's perfected over the years—she can tell how much this is freaking him out. "What exactly did she say to you?"

"She called me a caveman."

Iris snorts.

"It's not funny!" he squeals. "I'm supposed to be the nice guy."

What does that even mean after all this? Clearly some part of him feels entitled to Caitlin's attention, maybe even her love, and if that doesn't make him the biggest asshole in town he's not sure what would. He draws in a deep breath. He has to face reality and accept that he screwed up, and hope beyond all hope that his apology, whenever it decides to come, isn't too late.

"You _are_ a nice guy, Barry." Iris smiles. "People make mistakes. People get drunk at parties and say stupid things."

"Does Eddie?"

"Yeah." Iris raises an eyebrow—he knows better than to use Eddie to try and fail to make a point, but it's oddly comforting to know that Olympic Thawne isn't exempt from stupid behavior under the influence of alcohol. He wonders what a drunken Eddie looks like. "And so do I. But if you tell my dad I will deny it."

"Alright."

They go their separate ways to head to their first classes. Much like yesterday, it's hard for him to focus on anything but Caitlin. Calculus, US History, they all blur into a crystal clear repeat recap of that night at the party, Caitlin's accusations ringing in his ears. She sits in the back during English Lit, while he sits in the second row, else he'd fall asleep every other class—he doesn't dislike reading, nor does he necessarily dislike any of the classics Mr Hewitt makes them read, but literature doesn't hold the same appeal science does. Mr Hewitt tries to motivate his students but often gets lost in his own poetics and rhetoric. It's nice to know their teacher's passionate about what he does; sadly, it often comes at the cost of their attention.

At the end of another hour waxing about romanticism and the great poets, Mr Hewitt returns their essays. _A-_. He looks back over his shoulder at where Caitlin's carefully studying her grade too, and he smiles at the cute frown between her eyebrows, her lips pressed tight together at whatever she disagrees with on the page. If it weren't for their falling out they'd be comparing grades right about now; Caitlin might've fumed a little over literature not being a hard science, as if no other subjects really mattered, and they'd laugh. Just laugh.

Caitlin catches his eyes, and he's quick to avert his. _Sweet Jesus_ , he can't even act normal around her anymore. He blinks a few times, wondering if he imagined the subtle curl in her lips, but when he checks, her seat's empty. Caitlin's gone. Disappeared.

And he's in agony. Chinese-water-torture agony.

Now comes the moment of truth; sitting through a lab he's meant to complete with Caitlin as his partner. Maybe this elusive apology will show up. Maybe he'll find a new way of sabotaging something he'd set in motion over a week ago. Why couldn't friendship come with a manual? Why weren't there clear sets of instructions on what to say in which social situation? He'd go through life with a lot less flailing.

He makes a quick run to his locker to switch books, and heads for AP Chemistry with a slow dread to his steps—he's cold too, despite the blue jumper he added to his outfit. The clatter of the rain along the skylights doesn't help, rather serves as a reminder of the personal storm cloud hovering over his head, and the occasional lightning strike he deserves.

Caitlin's at their workstation, pulling her hair back into a messy bun, making sure it's all out of the way before they start the lab. They don't have to wait for Dr Wells to grab together all the materials and get started—what he wouldn't give for a buffer right now, someone to do the talking for him lest his mouth speaks of its own accord. But there's no escaping this, he and Caitlin are lab partners, and he's not about to allow his tomfoolery to affect their work in class.

"I already outlined the procedure." Caitlin tentatively hands him a methodically handwritten page, as if talking to him might set off another chain reaction of hurtful words. "Made you a copy too."

"Thanks." He takes the paper without meeting her eye, folding it in between the pages of his composition book. "We should write out what we'll be recording before we get started."

Caitlin nods and puts on her safety goggles—they fall to the tip of her nose each and every time—, and slips on a pair of latex gloves. "I agree," she says, pulling a lab apron around her neck, stuck once she realizes she's already wearing her gloves.

"Here," he offers, and links the white ties into a bow at the small of her back. It's not the first time he does so. Caitlin often got ahead of herself during labs. _It's real lab experience, Barry_ , she'd once told him, _it's what I'll be doing every day for the rest of my life!_ It's one of the few times he gets to have her close, study the ivory line of her shoulder, tiny strands of hair feather-loose at the nape of her neck. He never lingers long. His closeness served a functional purpose only.

They spend the overlarge portion of the hour that follows simply helping each other out. Caitlin sets out the hydrochloric acid and magnesium turnings and hands him the chronometer, while she stirs the solution—they record the temperature every ten seconds until maximum temperature is reached, and record it every thirty seconds for the next five minutes. Caitlin doesn't say much at all, besides the occasional readout of the temperature for him to jot down—normally they'd be trading banter and discussing data analysis, but Caitlin had staunchly relegated him to the doghouse. Nothing he didn't deserve.

After all this they'll have to complete individual lab reports, which in the past they've helped each other mock up, emailing back and forth until they got all the data, the error analysis, and their conclusion right. He's not sure they'll be going about that the same way this time.

"I'll type up the data at home and graph the results," he says, helping Caitlin clean up their workstation. He walks the chemicals over to the halogenated waste container and carefully pours it into the glass. "I'll email you."

Caitlin worries her lower lip. "Okay."

He hates that this is all so awkward, that there's this weight on his chest that could be so easily lifted, if only his lips could form around two simple words. _I'm sorry_. How hard can that be? There's that same melancholy vulnerability in Caitlin's eyes when she packs her things together, a slope of defeat to her shoulders identical to his. He's disappointing her with every moment that passes and digging himself a deeper hole.

"Mr. Allen," Dr Wells calls as students pour out of the classroom, Caitlin among them, "is something going on between you and Ms. Snow?"

He stops inside the door, dropping his chin to his chest. Of course Dr Wells noticed. Cisco and Hartley noticed yesterday and that class hadn't even required any interaction. Maybe he and Caitlin communicated a lot more than he thought.

"I, uh"—he turns to face Dr Wells. Might as well come clean to someone who could give him some proper advice—"kind of asked her out."

"I see." Dr Wells crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. "Not one of your smarter choices."

It'll never cease to amaze him how he can literally tower over Dr Wells and still feel so small in his presence. His opinion matters to him and holds a lot of sway; anything Dr Wells can tell him can help. "I don't know what to do, Dr Wells."

"An apology can go a long way."

Yeah. It probably can. "I don't—really know how to talk to her."

"Said many a teenage boy about many a girl." Dr Wells smiles. "If she means something to you, you'll find a way."

He nods. If Caitlin meant something to him he'd try harder to find a way to talk to her—he has her phone number, her home address, her email, how hard would it be to use any of those channels to contact her? But what he has to say should be said face-to-face, not sat hiding behind a receiver or a computer screen. He owes her that much.

He should talk to her right now, in fact, find her and walk up to her and say what he has to say. No more lame excuses. No more hesitation.

Sadly, Caitlin isn't alone again for the rest of the day. At lunch she sits with Ronnie and other football players with their girlfriends, and in the library she sits at a table entirely occupied by other diligently working students—whether it's intentional or not isn't clear, but he isn't any closer to apologizing than he'd been this morning. And he's not quite brave enough to go pick her out of a crowd and pull her aside.

He goes home exhausted, which is odd because he'd accomplished nothing all day but feel sorrier for himself. He tosses his backpack into a desolate corner and crashes onto the couch, where Krypto finds him and keeps him company. What a pathetic excuse of a human being he is; he claims to care about someone but can't be bothered to even try and fix what he broke. He flicks through some channels on TV, but abandons that in favor of his phone—Facebook, Twitter and Instagram keep him distracted for close to an hour, including some interesting articles Cisco posted.

The doorbell rings. It can't be his mom, she has her own key, and his dad won't be home for hours—maybe it's one of the neighbors, or one of his mom's colleagues with an urgent request. He drags himself off the couch and schleps towards the front door, opening it with something akin a friendly smile.

His heart reaches critical mass in .002 seconds. Brilliant brown eyes. Lower lip bite.

Caitlin.

At his front door.

"Cait!" he exclaims. "Hi!"

What is she doing here? Why now, after that disastrous display in class?

She appears small out on the front porch, even though Charlie ought to make her appear taller—the boy has his hand tucked in Caitlin's, and doesn't meet his eyes. The rain hasn't relented, he notices, Caitlin's umbrella dripping a small puddle on the front porch, her long black coat wet around her legs.

There's that color again—it hadn't stood out Friday night, little black dresses were all the rage at parties, but at least that'd had sequins sowed into it. At school Caitlin shone with color, like she had not an hour ago, but here, much like the night of their study date, she appears hard and unwavering, like a pillar rooted deep in the earth. Unmoving.

And somehow she'd found her way here, at the one door she shouldn't be. He should've been the one to make the first move.

Caitlin draws in a breath, her lips moving around white noise, but her eyes brighten. "Can we come in?"

"Of course." He moves aside, trying to remember when his mom would be home or if she'd mentioned it at all, and lets Caitlin and Charlie push past him in the doorway. The two Snows halt inside the door, Charlie holding Caitlin's hand tightly. They appear so out of place, alien in this space that's so familiar to him. He wonders if he'd looked like this in Caitlin's house.

"You, uh—mentioned some comic book the other day?"

"Oh." His eyebrows rise, eyes skipping from Caitlin to Charlie, to Caitlin again. "Yeah. Let me just—yeah." He nods and turns in the same breath, running upstairs despite his legs' insistence that he remain downstairs.

Is that all she's here for? Her brother's reading materials? No, he decides, that seems too callous after everything that happened, too cold from someone he knows to be warm and kind. She's probably here to talk things through.

He rummages through his comic book collection for _The Flash: Rebirth_ , and heads back downstairs.

He holds out his copy to Charlie. "Here you go, bud."

Charlie looks up at Caitlin, who motions to go ahead with a simple smile, and the boy lets go of Caitlin tentatively. He grabs around the comic with both hands, muttering a quiet, "Thank you," without making eye contact.

Caitlin unbuttons her coat and crouches by her brother's side. "Charlie, why don't you go sit on the couch and read a little, okay? Barry and I need to talk."

The boy nods and runs over to the couch, sitting down as if it might buckle beneath his weight. Charlie's distracted once Krypto runs over, sniffing their new houseguest. "Doggie!" Charlie giggles, entirely preoccupied with the golden retriever.

"I forgot you had a dog." Caitlin smiles. "I'll never get him to come home with me now."

And it's right there in that exact moment, with Caitlin staring lovingly at her brother, her eyes a little tired, that his apology appears. "Look, Cait, I'm sorry," he says, because why not? What's been holding him back? Caitlin's warm and kind and beautiful in the way she cares, she'd never make him feel like an asshole again if his apology came from a place of sincerity. Caitlin turns and finds his eyes, hers big and bright, and listens attentively. "I had too much to drink and said some things I'm not proud of."

There's more, there's so much more, but how does he word that? How does he say that without going into this sick sense of entitlement this past week has proven he possesses? He can't be around her without thinking he deserves her more than Ronnie does, without mentally breaking down her boyfriend or aching for something as simple as a conversation. Perhaps it's best to keep it short and simple; he's truly sorry and there aren't enough words to express that.

He slides his hands into his pockets. "I guess I'm not the nice guy I thought I was."

"Barry, you're a great guy," Caitlin says, but casts down her eyes. "I just didn't know you—"

His breath catches.

She didn't know he liked her.

At least he fooled someone. His friends saw it, his parents knew, but he supposes the proposed date let the cat out of the bag. Is it like that though? Does he want to date Caitlin? Sit across from her at a table and hold her hand in his, draw her close on a dance floor even though he can't dance worth a damn?

He does. He really does.

"I came here to apologize too."

He frowns. What possible reason could Caitlin have to apologize? She's not the one who assumed things were different than how they were. She's not the one who questioned her relationship, or suggested Ronnie wasn't the right fit for her. He did that all on his own. _Hurray_.

"I was a little drunk and—" Caitlin shakes her head, falling a step closer. He gets the impression she doesn't want Charlie to hear this. "You see, my dad doesn't approve of Ronnie."

 _Oh_.

That's the other voice he heard the night of the party. The other person questioning her relationship. Her own father? He got a few lectures on safe sex and gentleman-like behavior when he started dating Felicity, but neither his parents ever disapproved; they supported his choices, even though there's little not to love about Felicity. But Ronnie isn't that bad. All the bad qualities he attributes to Ronnie—how he's controlling and jealous and manipulative—lived only in his white knight fantasies where Caitlin's the damsel in distress. He's opened his eyes since last week. Caitlin isn't that girl.

"He doesn't like that he's older or that we've been dating for so long, and he didn't want me to go to the party," Caitlin says. "I guess I projected that onto you when you—"

"I would've asked you out to dinner. Not a date," he blurts out, if only not to hear Caitlin talk about his admission again. What was he thinking? Caitlin and Ronnie started dating more than two years ago, who's he to make any judgment?

"I want us—" He swallows. "I'd really like us to be friends."

Caitlin's gaze mellows, not unlike it does when she looks at Charlie. "We are."

"We are?"

"Of course, we are."

He smiles, the bright supernova copied when it stretches along Caitlin's mouth too. Of course they're friends. They've been lab partners for two years, and while they haven't hung out, while they haven't attended the same parties or grabbed dinner together, of course they both knew they complemented each other. Just because that had remained limited to class didn't mean there wasn't room for friendship beyond that. He's still not sure why last week of all days he'd decided to ask her to study with him, or why she'd chosen that day to agree, but Caitlin said it herself—he asked, she answered. Maybe it'd been some divine intervention on the universe's part, because it had long since realized that for him to make any sort of move—amicable or otherwise—he'd need a little nudge in the right direction.

"You want some—homemade lemonade?" he asks, for lack of anything else. He doesn't want her to leave yet.

"Sure."

They head for the kitchen once he reassures Caitlin that Krypto's harmless, and Charlie doesn't strike him as the kind of boy to roughhouse any dog. He's glad Caitlin came around, though he still doesn't think she owed him an apology. Despite the fact that she worked out some of her anger he shouldn't have rattled that hornet's nest. He never intended to upset her. Quite the contrary, in fact, he still secretly longed to learn all her secrets, all her desires, all her wishes for the future. But he's okay being her friend.

He pours two glasses of lemonade and they sit down at the kitchen table, Caitlin hanging her coat over one of the chairs—underneath she wears the pink and lime green color combination she had at school, showing her age again. She's seventeen. She shouldn't try and disguise that by wearing clothes that make her look much older. Does she do that to confound people's opinions?

"A little birdie told me Felicity's visiting next week."

"Iris," he realizes, and smiles. "Yeah, she's visiting her aunt in the hospital."

"It's nice that you two are still so close."

He shrugs. "We never stopped being friends."

It should be weird talking about an ex-girlfriend to a girl he has a crush on, but it's not. Caitlin and Felicity were close throughout elementary school, but drifted to different social circles once they reached junior high—they hung out for a while until Caitlin's mom died, and everything changed. Caitlin didn't go out much anymore, all her time divided between school, taking care of her family, and somehow, Ronnie. And while Felicity had tried to stay in touch she found that time and circumstances changed friendships the same it did relationships. They remained close but stopped hanging out so much. He and Felicity meeting changed things too; suddenly Felicity and Cisco and Hartley all hung out together and choices were made. But they never strayed far enough to stop caring for each other.

"About Ronnie," Caitlin says softly, folding her hands tightly around the blue-dotted glass.

"You don't have to explain. It wasn't my place to say anything."

Caitlin falls silent, focusing on her lemonade so intensely he expects the glass to burst or the liquid to start boiling; whatever she needs to say about Ronnie warrants his attention. He hasn't seen Caitlin like this often, this frail, like the slightest touch could break her into a million pieces, and he can only guess what she means to confess.

"He was there for me after my mom died."

He draws in a shuddery breath.

Caroline Snow died near the end of freshman year, months before they became lab partners—rumors abounded at school well into their junior year, but Felicity told him what happened. A silent heart attack they'd called it, and he'd run to his dad for a better explanation; there'd been no warnings and no symptoms, no indications whatsoever that anything had been wrong. Caroline Snow went to the hospital complaining of fatigue, and never came back home. Caitlin had been fourteen years old. Charlie barely three. Everyone talked about how much Caitlin changed, how her outfits used to reflect her sparkling personality, her quick smile and bubbly laughter, but now served to disguise how much she still hurt. He couldn't say how much of it was true. He'd only ever known this Caitlin, and in his eyes she was perfect.

"Every day," Caitlin says. "Whenever I needed someone, I could count on him."

Ronnie Raymond is by no means a bad guy. He doesn't know Ronnie. Iris got along with him too, so there must be something about him worth giving a shot. And if Ronnie has seen Caitlin at her most vulnerable, if she lets him in and shared her pain and heartache with him, he kind of admires Ronnie—because mourning is hard on everyone, whether you're the one who lost someone or holding someone together who lost a loved one. He's been so wrong, so misguided, and in the midst of all this he recalls Iris' words to him: "That's a really big thing."

Caitlin finally meets his eye again, and trades a grateful smile. "I kind of feel that way about you too," she says, folding her hands together on top of the table. "I know I get competitive, but I wouldn't be half this good if it weren't for you, Barry. You make me better."

Words escape him. Every interaction between them before last week involved school, and even though that had equally included playful banter and teasing each other, they only ever talked grades and labs and pop quizzes. Yet school means something to both of them, it's where they're laying the foundations of their future and others don't always understand that. But he does. Caitlin does. _They get each other_. They challenge each other. They complement each other. Maybe, at the end of the day, that's all his crush was about. He loved Caitlin's brain. So if the total sum of his efforts and failings this past week meant he got to be Caitlin's friend, he'll take it; he'd give about anything to have things go back to normal.

.

In the days that follow sun pushes through dark clouds, effectively chasing away the rain. For some reason he's yet to fathom, the universe grants him his wish. Things return to normal. Things get better, even.

Caitlin knows how he feels and he's accounted that his crush might be nothing more than exaggerated admiration for her brilliant scientific mind. Deep down he doubts there's anything to that—he couldn't admire her more if he tried, but admiration alone doesn't make a heart skip a beat, it doesn't make for jittery nerves when faced with the possibility of talking to someone again, it doesn't explain his wandering eyes every time Caitlin comes a little closer. But that's okay. He's gained perspective on Caitlin's relationship with Ronnie, his own relationship with Caitlin, and never in a million years would he consider friendship second best. If anything, friendships can matter more than relationships. Love can fade. Friendships can change. It's the rare ones that remain.

"So that makes -355,3J," he says, copying the number to his preliminary notes—Dr Wells gave them a week to complete the lab report and they'll need every minute. It should come as no surprise that Caitlin demands nothing but perfection and their lab reports often go through five drafts before they decide they're good enough.

"No, it doesn't." Caitlin taps out the numbers on her own calculator, showing him the same number, but a positive value.

"Yeah, it does," he repeats. "Any energy gained by the surroundings means energy has been released from the system. So..."

" _Negative value_." Caitlin gasps quietly, and if it weren't for him trying to maintain his cool he might have reached over and pinched her cheeks; Caitlin makes a note in her composition book, highlighted by three exclamation marks. "I can't believe I missed that."

"You know what they say. Alcohol kills brain cells."

Caitlin shoots up straight in her chair, lips parted, eyes wide, and chucks her pencil at him. It lands against his chest, falling down into his lap, and he can't contain the laugher that bubbles up in his chest. "Don't say that!" Caitlin's mouth can't contain a smile. "I didn't have that much to drink."

"If you say so," he mutters, acting unconvinced.

" _Shhh_ ," Mrs. Bates hushes. They giggle and duck their heads, not quite prepared to be kicked out at such a crucial time in their work. He's never felt so free around Caitlin, this normal—if that's a word he's even allowed to use.

"Worst-case scenario I'm down to your level now," Caitlin says, jokingly adding, "I'd still be smarter than 90% of the student body."

"My level?" he asks, feeling obliged to throw something at her in return. He settles for furthering their banter. "You're really pushing it, Snow."

"Bite me, Allen." Caitlin nose crinkles, and he guesses she tries her best to look menacing, but he ends up sort of wanting to kiss her. Maybe he's not entirely over the idea of falling in love with Caitlin Snow, but from now on he's going to be the nice guy. He won't question her choices unless they involved his grades, and he's going to make a conscious effort to stop thinking of Ronnie as the bad guy. He wants to make this friendship work.

" _Mon Dieu_ "—Hartley sighs and sits down next to him, dropping his books on the table—"get a room, you two."

He swallows hard, because he sincerely hopes he's not creating the impression that he's flirting—they've done this for the past two years, worked in this library or in class, the playful back-and-forth keeping them both on their toes. Science is fun, and Caitlin gets that better than anyone else in his life. Besides Cisco, that is.

If Caitlin picks up on Hartley's implication she ignores it. As far as he's aware Caitlin and Hartley know each other from French class, but he can't imagine they interact often. "Where's your better half?"

"He and Jax are having a lively discussion about Team Cap versus Team Iron Man in the new _Captain America_ movie." Hartley's tone reflects his usual disinterest in any sort of popular culture—it's really a surprise that he and Cisco work as a couple. Cisco rarely passes up a good pop culture reference and he can't imagine that's different around Hartley. Relationships come with compromises, at the end of the day. "Since I had little to offer by way of debate, I thought I'd join you and finish this assignment."

"As long as you don't get any ideas about using our results," Caitlin says.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment; he's been around Hartley long enough to realize Caitlin just insulted him, and he hates to think about what Hartley might say next—Hartley doesn't need anyone's help typing out lab reports or studying, he's that type of aloof genius who skipped his freshman year—Cisco and Hartley were in fact the same age—and cheating wouldn't only be an insult to his intellect, but to his personal morality.

To his surprise, Hartley smiles, albeit sarcastically, and says, " _Je te dérange pas, j'espère_?" in perfect French.

Caitlin glares at Hartley, so he assumes she understood whatever it is he said, but neither of them share; Caitlin returns to her calculations, and Hartley starts working in silence.

And he dreads that Hartley implied something further that might in time become _a thing_.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._

*Any notions of 'calorimetry' were taken from a Youtube video describing the experiment. Mistakes are my own.

* _Je te dérange pas, j'espère?_ loosely translates into "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"


	4. Chapter 4

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter four

.

.

Trains roll into the station one after the other, arriving from Starling and Coast City, more local trains from Smallville and Keystone, others East-bound for Metropolis and New York.

He's uncharacteristically early, half an hour on the dot, but he passes the time at Starbucks, even though Iris would kill him if she found out he'd driven past Jitters without dropping in. Checking his phone he notices an email from Caitlin regarding their lab report— _subject: draft n°3_. He makes a mental note to go over the draft later and get it back to Caitlin as soon as possible—they were getting through the work much faster than all their previous labs. Ever since they smoothed things out and had that wonderful heart-to-heart over his mom's homemade lemonade Caitlin's walls had come down. Caitlin keeps up with him effortlessly and she's not quite so worried of making mistakes around him anymore. It's a freedom their relationship has never allowed for and he can't wait to see where it might lead.

They've been working together all week, sitting at the same table in the library, much to Mrs. Bates' dismay, and have been joined by both Cisco and Hartley on more than one occasion—Hartley's remark hadn't come up in conversation, so maybe he'd misinterpreted the implication. Still, Hartley and Caitlin don't talk much, and he can't help but think that comment had a lot to do with it. Even if he could somehow remember what Hartley had said though, Google Translate probably wouldn't help.

"Barryyyyy," Felicity's voice fills up the entire terminal as she runs over, her suitcase in tow, and he catches her in his arms just in time, falling back a step so they don't both topple backwards.

The small bouquet of flowers he bought crunches between their bodies.

"I ruined your flowers, I'm sorry." Felicity grimaces, lips pulled askew before she studies the yellow buttercups more closely—they're more than a little ruined, but he figures it's the thought that counted. "You got me flowers?"

"For my best girl."

Felicity beams—"I'm still your girl?"—before throwing her arms around his neck again, flowers now flailing behind his back. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, the curve of Felicity's body at once familiar and welcome, a little bit like coming home. She wears the same perfume she has for years, Hugo Boss for women, a scent he doesn't need to smell to remember it dabbed along her skin.

He's not sure he'll ever stop considering her his girl. Which may not be healthy.

"Well, my Hot Ex."

They detach, Felicity staring lovingly at her ruined flowers. "Don't you forget that." She points, lips skating into a smile. "I'm so happy to be back here. And sad, of course, because of aunt Sue." Her smile drops at that last bit before she recovers, drawing a hand down his chest that leaves his spine tingly. "But mostly really happy to see you."

He smiles, weight shifting to his toes as he sways a little closer. "All of the above, and more."

"Show-off." Felicity scoffs.

"Frosty," he fires back, and takes hold of Felicity's bag. They head towards the parking lot together.

"Cheapskate."

"Ungrateful."

Felicity's eyes narrow. "Chemist."

"Hacker."

Felicity cackles, "I've really missed you," and they stumble laughing towards his mom's blue sedan. They weren't always like this—everything between them started off awkward and there were more than a few miscommunications. Unlike his friendship with Iris and Caitlin or Cisco, he and Felicity kept bumping together at odd angles, never figuring each other out before things got misinterpreted; not uncommon in first romances, or so his dad claimed.

"Iris asked if you wanted to have dinner tomorrow night," he says, angling the car towards the freeway; this time of day it'll be easier to drive around the city rather than cut through downtown—they could be stuck for hours while the drive should take about thirty minutes. Not that he'd have any trouble being locked in a car with Felicity. "Just the three of us."

Felicity nods. "How are Iris and her beau? What are we calling him this week?"

"Anything to do with Greek mythology."

"Adonis Thawne."

Felicity snorts.

"Anyway, they're good." He uses his blinker to switch lanes, weaving easily into late afternoon traffic. "They're coming around to the _who's going to move where_ conversation soon, and I think Eddie's more scared of that than Iris."

Hang on. Should he have said all that out loud? The thoughts and worries have been spinning in his mind since last week, when Iris' subtle shrug had given little away beyond her reluctance to discuss it with him, but it'd touched on his own insecurities. For all the fights he and Felicity had about how their future could look, he had no clue what he wanted to do after high school—he had so many options, and he wanted to make the right choice. But how would he know what that was?

"What makes you say that?"

"Don't get me wrong." He scratches the back of his neck, eyes firmly on the road. "Iris is crazy about Eddie. But Eddie's in love."

He checks himself, both hands back on the wheel, and opts for a little damage control before Felicity starts thinking he's talking about them. Which he isn't. He's freaking out about his own future in his private mental fortress of extraordinary distress. "I'm not—drawing any comparisons. Iris is just difficult to read when it comes to this stuff."

Felicity's eyes are on him. "Your brain just did a whole thing all by itself."

"What thing?"

"You assumed that I'd blame you for comparing what Iris and Eddie are going through with what we used to fight about all the time," Felicity says. "Or that you loved me more than I loved you."

Right. That thing. It's not the whole truth, love can't be measured by any means, and it's an uncountable noun to boot—he loved Felicity a great deal, and he can't say he ever felt like she didn't love him enough. Things like that shouldn't matter in a relationship anyway. But they did fight about decisions that were still a few years in their future, decisions Iris and Eddie were facing now and he...

He honestly didn't mean to draw comparisons.

"I didn't want you to think—"

Felicity pats his leg, leaving his skin hot. "And that's really very sweet."

"Also, please don't kid yourself," he quips, "you're totally still in love with me."

"Dream on, son."

The freeway turned out to be a sound choice, because half an hour later he parks the car in front of his house and helps Felicity carry her bag up the front steps of the porch. Krypto barks once and comes running, jumping up to lick Felicity's face—she happily lets him.

Felicity giggles. "He remembers me."

"He missed you," his dad's voice sounds, and his parents join them in the entryway.

Felicity hugs his mom, then his dad, while he holds Krypto back by his collar—crazy old dog has had too much excitement this week. Between his new friend Charlie and his old friend Felicity returning he'll be a handful for a while, far too energetic for his age.

"Thank you for letting me stay here."

His dad winks. "We love you almost as much as we love Barry."

His mom lovingly elbows his dad, but doesn't deny anything; they loved Felicity from the moment he introduced her to them, two weeks after their first date; it would've been sooner if meeting Felicity's mom hadn't freaked him out so much. Donna Smoak proved to be an interesting character, but nothing much like Felicity. Felicity's dad had split years before so he assumed she'd share some of her mom's personality traits, but Donna was eloquent and forward, scantily clad in places and quick to touch—she had an airy vibe about her, in stark contrast to Felicity's stern shyness, her lovable geekiness, and her tendency to babble without censoring herself when nerves kicked in. Felicity made for an even worse public speaker than he did.

Leading her up to the guest room, manhandling her bag up the stairs, he's struck with the thought that Felicity doesn't seem alien to the house at all. Somehow she'll always have a place in his heart, forever familiar to him, and he can't resolve if that's a good thing. What if love is meant to pass once you let it go?

.

.

"My eyes are up here, sailor," Felicity cautions, and he snaps to at the sound of her voice, catching her eyes and not releasing them until she's made it down the stairs. A smile plays around her lips identical to his as she comes closer, so impossibly close he near throws an arm around her shoulder like he used to.

The only other person who ever demands his personal space like this is Iris, their friendship so long-lasting and comfortable outsiders might misinterpret it, but those that know him can't exclude her from the equation that makes up his life.

"Sailor?" he asks, unable to hide his amusement.

Friday night came and went—Felicity visited her aunt Sue for an hour and assured him that she'd be up and running again in no time, though getting around with crutches might be a challenge for a while. He spent his time reading through and editing the third draft of the AP Chemistry lab report, emailing draft n°4 back to Caitlin. If Felicity knew she'd have a thing or two to say about doing homework on a Friday night, but what she doesn't know can't hurt him.

"Nautical term." Felicity shrugs. "It's from Zork."

"I knew that."

His eyes had been busy devouring Felicity's beautiful legs showing beneath her short purple dress—he can hardly be expected to focus on interactive fiction computer games with her looking like this.

They'd spent most of today catching up on each other's lives, life in Central City and Starling, new friends, old friends, but strategically tiptoe around the mention of any potential new love interests. He doesn't mind remaining in the dark about that aspect of her life. As much as he accepted that they aren't boyfriend and girlfriend anymore, he didn't need to know about Felicity dating anyone else yet. Maybe one day they'd reach that point. For now he liked the idea of still having Felicity to himself.

For lunch they tried the new sushi bar, Felicity's treat, and headed to the _Aquaporium_ afterwards— _penance_ , Felicity claimed, but the Central City aquariums were one of their favorite places to walk around and talk, to stare into massive tanks of water filled with cichlids, angelfish, gillifish, platies... They'd visited so often they could name them by heart, and tried to race each other to the correct name. He'd learned a few of the fishes' scientific names. Just for kicks.

He's ashamed to admit that having Felicity near proves a nice reprieve from the leap his life had taken this past week and a half. For once his mind isn't entirely preoccupied by thoughts of Caitlin and what their friendship might blossom into, or the potential beat down Ronnie might still owe him. No, this weekend would be all about reconnecting with his Hot Ex and nothing beyond that. He could do with shutting his brain off every once in a while.

Felicity claps her hands excitedly when they see Iris' red car pull up to the curb, even though it'd never been her first reaction to Iris before moving to Starling. She's let her hair down for the occasion, her blonde hair streaming down in long curls and he vividly remembers drawing his fingers through it when they kissed, Felicity's hands on his chest, a smile where their lips met.

He misses kissing; not anyone in particular, but he longs for the intimacy he lost when Felicity left, the nights spent on the couch with their legs entangled, curled up naked in bed wadded in the sheets, both embarrassed about their bodies but so incredibly in love. If he misses anything, it's that. Being in love.

"Barry, Barry, Barry, Barry!" Iris runs excitedly up the driveway, grinning wider than he's ever seen. She must have happy news; she usually waits in the car, far too keen on watching him force his legs inside the tiny car.

"That's his name and you're wearing it out!" Felicity exclaims.

Iris changes gears and draws in a breath, laughing, "Felicity. Hi," and throws her arms around Felicity.

While Iris is no doubt responsible for him asking Felicity out, they became friends because of him, and much of their friendship—if he can call it that—got conducted through him. They never hung out without him, even though Iris tried, and it'd led to a few heated discussions with both of them. Felicity often showed her dismay over his close friendship with Iris, but he honestly couldn't sacrifice his love for Iris for what he and Felicity were building; Iris became their compromise, one of a handful, whereas Iris had to let go of him a little. Iris had boyfriends before, but he'd never had a girlfriend before Felicity.

"I got in!" Iris jumps up and down once her attention returns to him. "I got into Drake!"

"That's amazing!" he says, and catches Iris when she jumps into his arms, lifting her a few inches off the ground. Drake was Iris' dream school, and while he could yet see her change her mind, being changeable as she is, he couldn't be happier. What he wouldn't give for the same kind of certainty, but he hasn't so much as chosen a major. His dad keeps telling him there's plenty of time, but sometimes his heart races at his indecisiveness—not a year ago he would've followed Felicity anywhere and now he's lost in a maze of choices and possibilities, and it keeps him up at night. People left and right were settling on majors and colleges, Caitlin and Felicity, even Ronnie, and Dr Wells' second favorite can't make up his mind. He hasn't even explored his options.

"I'm over the moon!" Iris shakes his shoulders. "My dad cried a little."

"So," Felicity says, "Iowa."

"The campus is beautiful." Iris and Felicity head for the car, chattering about college. He'd heard all about Iris' campus visit upon her return—he felt like he'd been there hearing Iris describe everything in such vivid detail. "I'd start out as an Open Major before I decide what kind of media I want to write for."

"Like print or digital."

"Or public relations, or advertising."

"Any preference yet?"

"I'm really drawn to print media, but digital is probably the future."

" _It is_ the future, girlfriend."

The conversation continues in the car, where he's relegated to the backseat with possibly even less room to maneuver. It's nice seeing his two girls talk like no jealousy had ever stood between them, and for once he doesn't have to provide a buffer. Maybe it's proof him and Felicity breaking up wasn't a mistake, that distance had helped them both move on, and the things that often came between them didn't matter anymore. Felicity hadn't blamed him for drawing comparisons, and everything they would've argued about in the past seemed gone.

College talk extends into dinner—three burgers and fries—, more about Iris' campus visit and Felicity's own premature visit to MIT. But Felicity's preached the beauty and superiority of MIT so often and for so long he hardly expected her to keep quiet. He lets them talk, their excitement too fun to watch. MIT could be an option for him, he supposed, much like Cornell or Columbia, Colorado State, Lafayette, Michigan State. The options were endless and he can't figure out how anyone ever settled on one—and then there's the added matter of having to get in. He refuses to think about it tonight or the rest of the weekend. Felicity's here, they're going to have a good time; college will have to wait.

"Wait"—Iris chuckles at a particular funny anecdote about Felicity's new school, digging her straw up and down through her milkshake. She's sitting opposite him and Felicity at the small table—"You taught the class?"

"He didn't know what data abstraction meant." Felicity shrugs with a certain amount of pride. "Heck yes, I taught the class."

"Same old Felicity Smoak."

Felicity raises her milkshake. "I'll drink to that."

He catches sight of her from the corner of his eye.

Caitlin Snow.

She pushes through the entrance door rubbing her hands together, Ronnie right behind her; they exchange a few brief words while his eyes draw down her outfit, a lightweight button down over a peach top, on top of a pair of pink skinny pants. This is a Caitlin he recognizes easily, a Caitlin he knows. Colored in perfectly between the lines.

Caitlin waves when she catches sight of him, and he waves back awkwardly with a slight wiggle of his fingers, drawing Felicity's and Iris' attention.

"Caitlin!" Felicity perks up and slaps at his shoulder until he slides out of the booth, so she can meet Caitlin halfway.

"It's so good to see you." Caitlin smiles, before drawing Felicity into a hug. Ronnie stands back patiently while Felicity and Caitlin trade compliments, as girls are want to do. "You look amazing!"

He falls back into his seat, his shin met with a sharp kick. _Iris_.

"Ow!" He rubs at his leg, and squeaks, "What was that for?"

But before Iris can say why she felt the overwhelming need to cause him physical harm, he hears Felicity ask, "Why don't you join us?" and he can practically feel gravity pull down his facial expression— _his best friend, his ex, his crush and her boyfriend walk into a bar_ , he hears the start of one odd joke. Any moment now he'll become the butt of that joke and lose face in front of three girls he cares about in varying degrees. _And in front of Ronnie._

" _That_ ," Iris points out, as if she couldn't have simply asked him to invite Caitlin to join them. He probably wouldn't have either way, but Iris kicked as hard as she punched; he wouldn't be surprised to find a bruise on his shin tomorrow morning.

"We don't want to impose." Caitlin bites at her lip, looking back at Ronnie, but Felicity insists they both stay for at least one drink, because they really need to catch up. Ronnie, unsurprisingly, being the male equivalent of a social butterfly, agrees to Felicity's proposal.

Soon Felicity sits back down in their booth, him by her side, while Caitlin and Ronnie slide in next to Iris. Ronnie's knees knock against his, making him shoot straight out of his seat.

"I'll, uhm—" He forces his limbs into submission, trying to recover from his goof while Iris and Felicity stare at him wide-eyed, "—go get us some more drinks."

"Great idea." Ronnie stands up alongside him. "I'll help."

Iris hides a snort by pretending to sneeze.

He swallows, trying to retrieve some spit, but he's run out. How does he get himself into these situations? He doesn't want to make nice with Caitlin's boyfriend, Ronnie's too close to Tony and any other potential tormenters—Jake Puckett, one of the football team's tackles, hasn't given Cisco a moment of peace. Coach Garrick tries his best to keep that all in check, but Ronnie's input would go a long way in straightening out any trouble. As far as he's aware, Ronnie hasn't said a word to his team.

Ronnie takes everyone's order and they head for the bar, silent as Ronnie relays the drink order to one of the bartenders. He wouldn't know what to say to Ronnie if he'd been handed a script; they have nothing in common besides Caitlin. It shouldn't give him any satisfaction that he's slightly taller than Ronnie, because honestly, what's that about? He could fit inside Ronnie two times.

"Hey, man"—Ronnie's the one to break the ice—"thanks for talking to her."

He's caught unaware. Caitlin? Talk about what?

"She was really bummed about the way she talked to you at the party. I'm glad you two worked things out."

"Y-yeah," he stutters, thankfully. So Caitlin told Ronnie about what happened at the party after all, but clearly not the whole story. If she'd told him he'd asked her out, surely Ronnie wouldn't be _thanking him_. Caitlin must've taken her outburst harder than he initially thought, or Ronnie noticed something was wrong and asked her about it. Either way, they seem to talk about the important things. "Of course."

"I wish I could understand half the stuff Dr Wells is teaching you, but I can't talk science with her."

It strikes him then that Ronnie's trying to have an actual conversation with him, and that he appreciates that Caitlin has someone to talk science with. Ronnie Raymond appreciates him. Huh. What the hell does he do with that? Sure, he'd accepted the idea that Ronnie probably wasn't the bad guy his fantasies made him out to be, but now he's being the bigger person? _In what world_?

"You got into Ithaca, right?" he asks, attempting some form of small talk. Not that yet another successful tale of academic achievement is what he needs right now. He wonders if Caitlin and Ronnie have had _the talk_ , if they'll take their relationship long distance or go their separate ways once Ronnie graduates. Ithaca isn't exactly around the corner.

"Football scholarship."

"What are you majoring in?"

"Sports management. Not as highbrow as—"

"Hey, no." He shakes his head. "You'll do great."

Ronnie makes a sudden half turn in his direction, eyes pinning him down with a kind of steeled determination he saw in his dad whenever he talked about terminal patients. "Seriously, though," Ronnie says. "You'll look out for her after I'm gone."

It's not a question. Not even a request. Ronnie's soft tone suggests a foregone conclusion. So he grants Ronnie the courtesy of his understanding. Ronnie wants her safe and looked after, more than her father might provide, maybe even more than she'll allow. "I will," he says, adopting the same grave tone, and has never meant anything more in his life.

An outsider might lament the fact that two men—boys, really—are making decisions for Caitlin behind her back, but it's not a decision. It's a boyfriend and a friend showing honest concern for all the broken pieces still knocking together in Caitlin's chest. He may not have known her before her mom died, but he reads her tells like a blind man reads braille; the lower lip bite, the distant stares, the telltale slant of her shoulders. She hides it well, or likes to think she does, but Caitlin still hurts.

They won't pretend they don't notice.

Ronnie slaps playfully at his shoulder, but his hand lingers too long to be misinterpreted; Ronnie appreciates a lot more about him than his just proclivity to talk science. "Thanks."

They return to the table with everyone's drink, his eyes catching in Caitlin's briefly. She offers a cautious smile, but he's not convinced she's clueless about what he and Ronnie talked about—surely their relationship isn't picture perfect, surely they have their disagreements too. Though he has no idea if he wants to be a point of contention between them.

Neither he nor Ronnie mentions their talk again, in any case.

Thankfully the conversation around the table doesn't return to the same theme as before. Caitlin and Felicity catch up on each other's lives and everyone joins the conversation. Felicity's mom started dating a police captain, one, it turns out, Iris has met through her dad; Charlie started asking about getting a dog, and Ronnie agrees that a pet could help get Charlie out of his shell—Caitlin purses her lips at that and lets the matter drop, obviously uncomfortable talking about her brother like this. Ronnie doesn't push either, which shows how in tune he is with Caitlin's nonverbal signals. It stands to reason he couldn't be the only one.

They're an odd mix of people; a cheerleader on her way to becoming a journalist, a quarterback going into sports management, a techie dead-set on getting into MIT, and two scientists, one no doubt convinced of what she'll do after high school, one terribly confused about what he wants. Or who he wants. The strange thing is it works; they've never hung out, not even Felicity and Iris without an unnecessary amount of jealousy, but they're in that booth until closing time.

Near eleven Iris excuses herself, because she's driving out to see Eddie and tell him her big news, and Caitlin and Ronnie head home too, leaving him blissfully alone with Felicity. They grab a cab right outside the restaurant.

"I thought you were going to Road Runner straight home when you shot up from your seat." Felicity laughs, pushing their shoulders together in the backseat. "But you handled that entire situation very gentlemanly."

"I've been trying to put my caveman-like tendencies aside." He shrugs. "He's not a bad guy."

"What are you talking about?" Felicity throws up her hands, looking left and right in a very melodramatic manner. "He's trash. No one can be that nice _and_ a quarterback. There might be studies on that."

He smiles despite himself. "You don't have to try and cheer me up."

"She likes you," Felicity says, in that soft tone of voice that lacks any teasing, any sort of joking. It should come as no surprise that Felicity picked up on his nonverbal cues—he tries his best, but he can't keep his eyes from wandering towards Caitlin, or to listen more attentively when she's speaking. "And she speaks your language."

Our language, he thinks.

"But you can't expect her to betray what she has with Ronnie."

His head falls back against the headrest. "I feel so stupid."

"Don't." Felicity hooks their arms together. "You've always liked her."

Not like that, has he? Felicity can't be implying his crush was this obvious when they were dating, or that he thought about Caitlin when they were together—that's too disrespectful to what they had, which was soft and sweet and new at every turn. Felicity will always be his first love, his first kiss, his first time. Caitlin hadn't been on his radar the way Felicity claims.

"I haven't always liked her like this."

"Maybe you don't."

"Don't what?"

"Maybe you don't really _like_ like her," Felicity says. "Maybe you just think you do because—"

"Because we broke up?" he asks. "And I'm completely lost without you?"

No, Felicity means the fantasy—maybe he's in love with the fantasy. And she might be right.

"I wasn't going to put it like that." Felicity laughs, tiptoeing her fingers along his leg to give herself something to do. "I know it's my fault that we—"

"Hey." He takes her hand. "Don't do that."

Their break-up wasn't anyone's fault, except maybe the universe's. After all these months without her he can't say if it would've happened anyway, if their arguments would've spun into fights or if his indecisiveness would've eventually broken Felicity's back, but they can't keep hanging onto the what ifs. What if she'd stayed? What if they'd tried long distance? What if he never found anyone like Felicity again? They're sixteen years old. They have their whole lives to figure that all out.

"I miss you." Felicity sighs, dropping her head to his shoulder. "I miss Cisco and Hartley. I miss my old room."

He can't imagine anyone ever missing Hartley, but he can understand all the rest. He'd have a hard time packing up his life and leaving too, even if he had his parents with him. The thought of socially awkward Felicity Smoak starting over at a new school, finding a new group of friends, makes him scared for her. By the sound of it she's done well though, and even scored the one school in Starling City where they taught AP Computer Science.

"I could've lived with my aunt Sue, you know," Felicity adds absentmindedly. Her aunt Sue is her dad's sister, Felicity's last link to him since he disappeared—he doesn't know the whole story, mainly because Felicity doesn't have that herself, but her aunt meant a lot to her. She never told him she offered to put her up.

He kisses Felicity's hair. "You never would have left your mom."

They sit like that, side by side, for the rest of the drive.

"I'm not sleepy." Felicity pouts as they reach the landing at home, about to split up and head for their respective rooms. But if Felicity isn't tired she's likely to start snapchatting in bed and well, they can't have that.

" _New Hope_?" he suggests.

" _Empire_ ," they agree in unison, beaming. They both change into their PJs—tops and bottoms—and meet in his bedroom, a ritual they've completed many times before. Crawling underneath the sheets they arrange his laptop between them, and turn on their favorite _Star Wars_ movie. They must've watched it together over a dozen times already.

He lies back on his side in the pillows, mirroring Felicity's position, forcing them to watch the movie at an odd angle, but at this point he's not sure if Felicity's interested in the movie, or if she wanted him close. Or if he wanted her close. As the moments pass—Jabba, the gold bikini, the Sarlacc pit—they somehow fall into staring in each other's eyes the way they used to, and in that exact moment he remembers. How they were, laughing at each other, with each other, and the smiles hidden in every kiss. How she felt sleeping against him, outlined against his body, breath fanning across his skin, her chest rising and falling. How sleep looked on her, and how sadness could weigh her down. How every smile, every touch, every kiss lay imprinted in his memory like age lines along sun kissed skin.

Gently, he pulls off her glasses, reaching over her to dispose of them on the bedside table, and lies back down. A little closer this time. As if drawing closer might draw her closer too.

"Do you remember the day we met?"

He smiles. "Which time?"

Looking back on it they must have met three or four times, each time a bit more prepared to give the other the benefit of the doubt—Felicity too often babbled incoherently, and he got tongue-tied, so they needed a few tries to get it right. Once they did, they became inseparable.

"Outside by the lockers." Felicity tugs at his shirt. "Still wet behind the ears. Stuttering through a conversation."

"You were so embarrassing."

This earns him a shove, Felicity shaking her head. "I didn't like you."

He chuckles, the memory clearly defined, and if he were to trace it with his fingers, he'd read his name, and Felicity's, spelled out in starlight. "I thought you were beautiful," he says. "But snooty."

"What's wrong with us, Barry Allen? We're perfectly perfect for each other."

"Maybe the universe has other plans."

Felicity's index finger lands crisscross over his lips. "Don't think about her right now."

"I'm not."

His eyes fall to Felicity's lips, lips he knew so intimately for such a long time, his first time, and next thing he's drawing fingers through her hair, her blue eyes shining with the same sentiment. Maybe the universe has other plans, but right now he's where he needs to be, a little bit more in love, a little bit more of a fool. Felicity lays her hand over his heart, and their lips meet. A soft press. A quick nip. A searing deepening once they both have their bearings.

They trade lazy kisses back and forth, lost in the moment, just the two of them, spellbound by memory.

.

.

That night he dreams about packing his bags. He's being made to leave his home, his parents, his friends, and a hand curls around his to try and stop him. It's Caitlin, and it's Felicity's, tethers in a world of fancy. He would stay for Caitlin, he would stay for Felicity, but would either of them follow? If he leaves who'd be left? If he leaves who would be there every moment of every day to make it count, to make love worth it, to make him feel wanted? Why can't he be selfish and be the kind of person who needs to share a life?

He wakes around eight-thirty with empty arms. Felicity's still in the bed, he felt her tossing all through the night and the sheets haven't cooled down in her absence. Blinking up at the ceiling he can't fathom what will happen. Do they need to talk about the kiss? What should he say? That he liked it, that he loved it, in fact, but it can't happen again? He hadn't thought of Caitlin for a single second, it'd been Felicity across his entire line of sight and thought, but the morning sun didn't change their situation. Felicity lives in Starling City. He won't leave Central City for at least another year. Beyond that, only Felicity had settled on what would happen. He wonders what the weather was like in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

He turns his head, staring straight into Felicity's blue eyes. So beautiful. "Hi."

Felicity smiles softly. "Hi."

He can't gauge her mood, not with the sleep still present around her eyes, her cheeks rosy and the lazy smile curled around her lips. What he wouldn't give for a cipher key to everything Felicity Smoak right about now. She doesn't move any closer, doesn't steal another kiss. She seems as conflicted as he does. Which puts him oddly at ease.

"I'm going to take a shower," Felicity says, and rolls out of bed.

"Okay."

He rests a hand over his stomach, focusing on the rise and fall of his breathing. Feelings change, he learned that lesson all too well, but if anyone had told him last year he'd ever regret kissing Felicity he wouldn't have believed them. He can't deny it makes him sad, the thought that Felicity isn't the girl for him, even though that seems like too heavy an idea at his age. A love that lasts. He imagines everyone hopes love lasts when they're in the center of it. Now, with the added perspective of time, he recognizes he and Felicity are too much alike, and too specifically different—she's too decisive, too strong-willed, and he's far too changeable still.

Maybe it's time he got around to choosing a major.

Maybe that'll clear some things up.

He gets up and heads downstairs, where his dad's setting the breakfast table for four. He can't recall the last time Felicity joined them for their Sunday morning tradition.

"Son, I know you and Felicity have history"—his dad gets straight down to business, a whiplash sensation without his morning shower—"but I'd be more comfortable if she stayed in her own bed tonight."

"Dad, I'm sorry," he breathes, and chooses a little white lie to appease his dad, and maybe his mom, should she have noticed too. The few times he and Felicity woke up together in the same bed his parents weren't home—Donna came home, once, while he was getting dressed in the bathroom, but she hadn't lectured them. "We fell asleep watching _Star Wars_."

"That does sound more like you. Both of you." His dad laughs, winking. "I won't tell your mom."

"Thanks."

Breakfast happens quietly and calmly between the four of them. His mom asks Felicity one question after the other, much like yesterday morning, about school and friends and Donna, about Donna's police captain boyfriend, and all her computer interests—it's a way for her to ask Felicity to help her with some of her charities' websites later, and he does wish he'd told her she doesn't need to use some extensive ruse to ask for Felicity's assistance. But it's cute to see his mom try.

After breakfast he heads upstairs and showers, massaging the kink out of his shoulder where Felicity had laid her head for a few hours last night. If he loved the fantasy Caitlin represented, he equally loves the fantasy Felicity still did—someone in his life to share the most intimate moments. It's hard to let go of Felicity when that fantasy is founded in memory, when it's not his imagination that fuels it. But it's time he does. He has to let go.

He suspects Felicity means to communicate the same thing when he finds her in his room.

"About last night," she says, and her face does that scrunching thing it does when she's about to tell him something he might not want to hear. But he's all too aware what's coming. They're not perfectly perfect for each other, if that was even a state achievable in any relationship—their flaws are what makes them perfectly imperfect and while those are all qualities to fall in love with, qualities _he had_ fallen in love with, things aren't the same between them. Iris and Felicity's easy interaction last night proved that.

"It can't happen again," Felicity says, sitting down on the bed next to him.

He sighs, mouth pulling to the right at the phantom onslaught of tears—he had cried when Felicity first left, but her being here is meant to be celebrated. He won't cry over what he let go of months ago. What he just now realized he let go of. "We're not a couple anymore."

Felicity takes hold of his hand. "We've never actually said that, have we?"

"Not out loud."

Felicity's head lands on his shoulder.

.

.

That night he drives Felicity back to the train station, after a quiet dinner at home with his parents, and elaborate goodbyes. Felicity promises to visit again, to email more often, and as she scratches behind Krypto's ears a glance passes between them: this might be Felicity's last visit for a while, at least one overshadowed by doubt over whether or not they'd made the right choice. They know now they had.

"Don't give up on her," Felicity says, coming to a standstill next to the outgoing train.

"On who?"

Felicity gives him a hard stare. Right. How can he justify not giving up on Caitlin with Ronnie still in the picture? How can he even entertain that thought after the promise he made Ronnie? Life's complicated enough without being in love with a girl who has a perfectly caring and friendly boyfriend. Maybe his initial reasoning wasn't wrong. Maybe he has a crush on Caitlin because she's taken, and he wants to avoid another broken heart. He's not a coward, but he's not brave enough to make the same mistakes over again.

"Cisco and Hartley told me the opposite. Something about Caitlin being like the Kobayashi Maru."

"That's reductive." Felicity's eyes narrow. "And kind of offensive."

He nods. "And friendship isn't second best."

"Exactly." Felicity smiles, a mutual understanding knitting their lives together all over again. Letting go isn't a bad thing. Breaking up didn't provide a closing bookend to the rest of their lives. In their case, it means a new friendship, one they have yet to explore, and just because they were intimate before doesn't mean they can't discover a new kind of intimacy as friends.

He can talk to Felicity in ways he can't talk to Iris, or Caitlin, or even Cisco. Maybe, in a strange way, people collect friends over the course of their lives because at any one point they crave a different understanding—Iris would be in his life forever, but others might not. That's not the end of the world. He wants Felicity in his life for a long time to come.

"Goodbye, Felicity."

"Bye, Barry."

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	5. Chapter 5

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter five

.

.

For as long as he can remember school has been a steady routine that pulled his focus, the quiet hustle of students moving from one class to the next, the slam of a locker left and right, laughter among friends, hurried footsteps on the tiled floors. Homework and essays and reading assignments were all part of a day-to-day habit he quite enjoyed.

It's all gotten a bit confused as of late, mainly due to his personal choices, but he wouldn't change anything. The past two weeks have been challenging and eye opening and exciting, a turnaround of his comfortable routine that has gained him so much. Caitlin has become his friend, Ronnie might be his friend after Saturday night, and he and Felicity are in a much better place—all that because of one stuttered question one late afternoon in the school library.

Caitlin falls into her regular seat next to him in class, smiling while she lays out her textbook, notebook, pen and pencil. She's wrapped in a long sleeve pink blouse, bright blue jeans under that, a pair of pink sneakers completing her outfit. If the color's meant to hide anything he can't guess what it could be, because this is Caitlin to a tee, bright summery colors to soften the edges some might label as hard, but mostly they frame a young girl with an easy smile. Maybe more often than not that smile hid something broken, but she's allowed to heal like any other person. Some simply take longer than others.

He remembers when his grandma died his mom didn't leave the house for a week, cupped in her grief as if it were two hands holding her down—his dad told him to let her be, to hug her and kiss her and tell her that he loved her, to support her through her pain. Grief takes its toll, and losing a parent isn't easy no matter what age. Though he imagines it's particularly hard when you're a teenager.

"I had a really nice time Saturday," Caitlin says after class, packing her things back together before they walk over to Dr Wells' desk to deposit their lab reports—a lot of work went into those two dozen pages, work they're both proud of. He thinks it shows.

"Me too. It was nice having us all together."

"I see you two made up." Dr Wells secrets a smile in his usually impartial features.

"We did." Caitlin smiles, and bumps shoulders with him, so unexpected he nearly loses his balance. If Caitlin keeps catching him unaware like this he'll need to step up his game—he's used to Iris' tactility and he learned Felicity's, but Caitlin's might require some strategy. He can't get carried away around her, can't let his crush show too much lest others notice too. Caitlin knows, he can't change that, but he can stop others from finding out.

"You take my advice?" Dr Wells asks.

His face falls. Why would Dr Wells ask him that in front of Caitlin? Caitlin doesn't need to know he accepted Dr Wells' advice, or that they talked about her at all. What kind of picture does it paint when you ask your teacher for relationship advice?

He nods nonetheless, because he doesn't want to disappoint Dr Wells. His cheeks burn hot.

He and Caitlin exit the lab, Caitlin skipping a step forward to keep up. She smiles openmouthed while her eyes gleam with delight, her curls bouncing in rhythm with her excitement, and he gets a little more lost. "You asked Dr Wells for advice about me?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah?"

"That's really sweet." Caitlin beams, and it's about the only thing keeping him from melting down into a shameful puddle of teenage boy. Why can't he ever be cool around Caitlin? What a sight that would be, a cool Barry Allen. Someone who actually had some moves.

"I have to run," Caitlin says, squeezing a hand around his arm. "Promised Ronnie and his friends I'd help with a math problem."

"Variables?" he asks, because he helped Iris with those a while back.

Caitlin lovingly rolls her eyes. "Differentials."

He's left laughing at Caitlin's breezy dismissal of the basic tenement of differential calculus, but no less impressed that she does so in front of him. It takes a special kind of girl not to be intimidated by calculus.

"What's this about Saturday?" Cisco appears by his side as if he'd been there all along. He sincerely hopes he doesn't have to get used to his friends eavesdropping on all his conversations.

"Felicity sort of invited Caitlin and Ronnie to have drinks with us the other night."

He would've invited Cisco and Hartley too if Cisco hadn't told him they'd be catching a double feature—one of Cisco's choosing and one of Hartley's—and then probably make out on the couch for the rest of the night, Cisco's parents out at one of his older brother's piano recitals. Cisco had overshared.

"You had drinks with the boyfriend?"

"It was fun." He shrugs. "He's cool."

Cisco's eyes narrow on his face. "No-o."

" _Cisquito_ ," Hartley hushes, sidling closer to his boyfriend, knowing as well as him what's coming. He should choose his words more wisely.

"No," Cisco repeats, digging his index finger into his chest. "Ronnie Raymond is not cool, Barry Allen. He's The Man"—cue the _School of Rock_ reference—"and we, as nerds, are meant to stick it to The Man. Not have drinks with him."

"Okay, then what about Caitlin?"

Surely Cisco doesn't consider Caitlin part of the established order that caters to The Man and everything he represents. High school has sides, clear lines that divide all the social orders from one another with specific vocabulary or a certain dress code. Caitlin's never taken sides, nor has anyone ever asked her to. She's living proof that the lines between social orders can blur, and teenagers make popularity out to be far more important than it actually is.

Cisco purses his lips. "I'ma get back to you on that."

Hartley lets out an uncharacteristic chuckle at that, too weak to resist an adorably confused Cisco.

"Who knew you had it in you, Bartholomew."

His eyebrows shoot up. "What, now?"

"You know what they say about keeping your enemies close." Hartley winks and drags Cisco with him down the hallway.

Was that what he was doing making small talk with Ronnie on Saturday? Keeping his enemy close? Quarterback bane-of-his-existence Ronnie had proved to be an upstanding guy, who not only wanted what was best for Caitlin but also liked that he and Caitlin could talk about science together. Granted, he's not trying to be friends with Ronnie on purpose either, but—

Why did Hartley have to say things like that? Why did he have to make this odd sort of sense about _winning a mate_ and a _biological imperative_? Last he checked, they were well past the Stone Age. Though maybe not his hormone addled brain.

.

.

April phases into May and with it comes the required level of stress—the AP exams are around the corner, three tedious 3-hour exams. Caitlin's in a constant state of anxious energy, up out of her seat every ten minutes to track down another reference book in the library, photocopying relevant passages, or copying it by hand into one of three notebooks. Her brow's set in concentration, a small near-frown above her left eye, her lips pressed tight together—it's enough of a distraction for him to get little to no work done, other than the few books Caitlin forces him to take a look at, but he hasn't had a lot to show for the past few days of studying in this library. At least he got a lot of work done at home.

Friday they were here for four hours, helping each other through old summaries, copying some of each other's notes, and went home to study for another few hours. Yesterday they tackled some AP Calculus AB problems together, but neither of them seemed to have many issues with any of the calculations—math made sense, they could count on it to have clear answers, and they hadn't lingered on it long. Today they're back to AP Chemistry, and even though Dr Wells wouldn't be asking the questions, he'd explained enough about what the test would look like to make them fearful.

Caitlin programmed her phone to buzz every forty minutes, so she can take a fifteen-minute break to use the bathroom, eat a snack, or stretch her legs, and he hadn't seen any reason not to join her fine example. Today she uses the second of these breaks to check her phone, and he can't find the will to stand and grant his legs some much needed circulation. From the moment he met Caitlin he knew she was competitive, that she strived to be the best in everything she did and, in a way, expected that from others. This past week he got the distinct sense she put those expectations on herself, and it's made her quieter, focused to the point of shutting out much of the background noises around her, and a lot more tense.

It's surprising, then, to watch her shoulders relax as her eyes track down her phone's screen.

"Felicity emailed me," she says, affectionately scrolling down.

He wonders how she and Felicity talk, if it's anything like 'Overlord Smoak' and 'Hot Ex' and they developed their own vocabulary over the years, or if they would have to start over because they haven't talked in so long. A lot of that takes time; he and Felicity didn't become eloquent around each other for weeks, so he can only imagine what it's like for friends who've been out of touch. Maybe, in an ideal world, if it's meant to be, that's something they'll rekindle effortlessly.

"You two were close, weren't you?"

"Inseparable." Caitlin folds her arms on top of the table, stretching where she sits. A fond smile curls around her lips, and he feels a co-conspirator in an elaborate plot to travel back in time to when Caitlin and Felicity were young girls. The two of them together must've been a sight to behold; pigtails, matching outfits maybe, playing with their moms' make-up. "We used to—wear our hair the same way, and coordinate our outfits."

Exactly how he imagined.

Donna showed him pictures of Felicity in elementary school, all wild curls or pigtails, not yet wearing any glasses—they were pictures of a spitfire girl in shorts and sneakers, dirt on her face and a big smile for the camera. He could hardly picture that look on Felicity, let alone Caitlin. They'd both grown into young spitfire ladies who color coordinated like it was a special talent, who wore dresses and short skirts and didn't get their hands dirty. Funny how getting older streamlined a person like that. Or maybe that was just girls. He still wore the same clothes, though much bigger in size.

The joy of that lost childhood plays in Caitlin's eyes, a time when all they had to worry about was washing their hands before dinner, wiping their feet when they ran into the house, tidying up all their toys come day's end. Underneath that joy he detects melancholy, maybe a twinge of regret, over a long lost friendship. What's changed these past few weeks for Caitlin to seek out Felicity again? What made her sit down at his table that day at the library and agree to study with him? Something's different and he can't put his finger on it.

"It's funny how friendships change over the years," Caitlin says, memories ghosting down her face until a small shadow settles over past mischiefs. "I suppose that's only when you let them."

"I don't know. Sometimes I think me and Iris are an exception."

Caitlin's gaze traces his own fondness down his features. "You two go back a long way."

He nods, resting his arms on the table, huddling over it so they might talk more privately, co-conspirators along the pathways of youth. "My mom organized a charity drive for the police department when we were very little." He must've been two at the time, Iris three, both too young to remember the day they met. That little boy had no idea he met a girl who'd affect his life for the better, who'd be there like his shadow, standing up for him, getting into trouble with him, growing up alongside him. "That's how we met. Mom started babysitting Iris while Joe was at work. It was inevitable."

"I didn't know Iris and Felicity were friends."

"They weren't." He breathes in deeply. "At least not when Felicity and me—"

He flashes back to Saturday night, he and Felicity facing each other like mismatched quotation marks, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. He might do it again, even knowing what he knows now; he'd kiss her again and again, chasing the ghostly memory of a time long gone. Had they let things change? Had they not stood their ground against the grinding waves of it, Felicity moving, Felicity leaving, and him letting her? If it were real, if it was worth fighting for, wouldn't they still be together?

"You really loved her."

He blinks, and breathes, sitting up straight. "She's perfect for me."

Felicity's words, he realizes, false assumptions based on what they used to have— _they were_ perfect for each other, _they were_ great together, _they were_ each other's perfect first loves. But there's no such thing as a perfect boyfriend or girlfriend.

"I'm not sure it would've worked out."

"What makes you say that?"

"We have different ambitions. Different interests."

Felicity would never have sacrificed MIT, and he'd never have expected her to, but Felicity wouldn't have compromised either—when it came to college she had a one-track mind and she didn't care if he followed or not. He never would've asked her to sacrifice anything, but he wanted her to at least care enough to consider how he might feel. Did he want his future set in stone? Did he even want to decide on a major so he could map out the next four years of his life? It all seemed so permanent.

"I wasn't implying you and Ronnie—" He stutters, running through a whole thing in his head before Caitlin even has the chance to catch up. He clears his throat, coughs, "I'm sure you guys—" but never finishes his sentence. Talk about Grade A incoherence.

He meets Caitlin's eye with faltering courage, ready to be berated like he was the night of the party.

Instead, he meets with a soft smile.

"You're cute when you babble."

The entire library fades to dull gray colors, Caitlin left in the bright Technicolor of his dreams. Other students buzz around them like flies, but they're like white noise in the awed silence Caitlin's words commanded. He stutters a halfhearted chuckle and casts his eyes down at the table, a hand massaging the back of his neck. In his chest his heart beats up a storm, a veritable hurricane ringing violently in his ears, his cheeks burning. Should he say something? How does he respond to a compliment like that?

But when he gathers the courage to look up again he catches the uncomfortable twitch in Caitlin's lip, the discontent frown above her eyes, and Hartley's comment comes to mind again. _Get a room_ , Hartley had joked, but something had followed, something Caitlin had understood, and he can't help but think Caitlin flashes back to that same afternoon a few weeks ago. What had Hartley implied that made Caitlin uncomfortable? That's made him this second-hand uncomfortable?

"Maybe we should call it a day," he says, his mouth and brain agreed that they've been here for a good long while and they could both use some fresh air. Cheer and football practice should be winding down any moment now too, so he won't keep Iris waiting.

Caitlin nods. "I still need to make dinner before tonight's cram session."

He packs his things together while Caitlin returns some books to their rightful place, and he's struck by the thought that if he keeps studying with Caitlin he might flunk out for the first time in his life. It says more about where his mind's at than Caitlin's apparent skill at distracting him—these past few weeks the world has paled whenever Caitlin's around and while that hasn't come at the cost of his schoolwork so far, if he doesn't study he's going to be in a lot of trouble. He needs to refocus and put his feelings for Caitlin out of his mind for a while.

"Do you think—" He follows Caitlin into the hallway. "Maybe for finals—Hartley and Cisco could study with us?"

If Hartley's past comment had bothered her a few minutes ago Caitlin doesn't show it now. "That sounds great. We could use a math genius in our midst."

"Hey! Allen!" Tony's voice barrages through the entire school like artillery, but what frightens him the most are the fast approaching footsteps behind him. The footsteps that, long ago, preceded bruised bones and scraped skin. "You been messing with my boy's girl?"

"Excuse me?" Caitlin asks and turns around, and before he gets the chance to do the same Tony's caught up with them and shoves mercilessly hard at his back, chasing all oxygen from his lungs as he hurtles to the ground. He drops with a hard thud, his arms barely supporting his weight as he tries to scramble up, but the entire hallway spins around him for a few seconds, his inner ear trying to catch up to the sudden change in position.

"Tony, stop!" Caitlin screams, but even if Tony had somehow registered her voice he doubts it would've been much use—Tony drags him upright and throws him back against a row of lockers. His head collides hard with the grated metal, stinging like a cut, and his eyesight goes hazy for a moment. He thinks Caitlin screams again but he can't be sure, only that she tugs at Tony's arm.

"You stay away from Caitlin, you hear me?" Tony sneers, his breath hot against his cheek while he struggles to breathe—that's what this is about? Tony's sick way of looking out for Caitlin? Dread creeps down into his bones and makes him shudder. Had Ronnie put him up to this? Would he send Tony after him for flirting with Caitlin? Did Ronnie take care of these kinds of things without getting his hands dirty?

But he no sooner runs through that train of thought or Tony's ripped back by a strong arm, and Ronnie's voice sounds, "Let him go, Tony, let him go!"

His legs give out and he'd fall to his knees if it weren't for Caitlin's arms over his chest, one hand cupping the back of his head. His skull throbs and he has to close his eyes. He might be sick.

"What's your problem, man?" Tony's voice phases in and out, much like everything else around him. "This little streak's been eyeing your girl."

"Oh, come on, man, they're friends," he hears Ronnie reply. "And 'my girl' doesn't need anyone defending her honor, you hear me? Walk it off."

Struggling one eye open he sees Tony taking a step forward, where Ronnie's thrown himself into the line of fire, but Ronnie won't let him near him. "Walk it off!" Ronnie shouts, pushing Tony back against the lockers on the other side of the corridor.

Who would've thought he'd see the day Ronnie Raymond defended him? Ronnie's a good guy, he'd even hazard to say he's a friend at this point, and he couldn't be more grateful for him. Tony came close to killing him. His knees wobble like they used to in elementary school—it's not a feeling he's missed.

"Are you okay?" Caitlin asks once he finds his footing again, her concern tangible in the hand over his heart, her sudden closeness, and if he weren't in such bad shape he might find the strength to fantasize about something more. But right then Caitlin's face goes in an out of focus. She pulls back the hand cupping his head and her fingers come away red. He's bleeding.

"Shit, Allen, I'm sorry," Ronnie breathes, coming around to his other side to steady him.

"I'm okay," he says, even though the back of his head pounds like it's trying to escape the rest of his body and his limbs shake with a certain amount of fear. He thought these days were behind him, the days he went home with bruises or a split lip, especially at the hands of Tony, and had to hear his mom's soothing words before the world made any sense again—his dad finally stopped calling him _slugger_ a few years ago, a nickname he earned after he won a fight against some bullies picking on some other kids. He still couldn't say what came over him that day, what made him stand up to someone else's bullies rather than his own, and he hadn't hit back since. Whenever Tony hurt him he took his beating, he cupped his bruised elbow or iced his lip because he wasn't the confrontational type. He didn't want to be a fighter in return.

After finding an outlet for his anger—wrestling and football—Tony let up, but this felt like a whole different kind of anger. Tony did what Ronnie wouldn't, what Ronnie clearly refused or thought a complete caveman approach. There's something to be said about that. Ronnie Raymond's a much bigger person than he is.

Ronnie and Caitlin escort him to the nurse's office, who takes one look at him, sits him down on one of five beds, and leaves him to tend to a student hung over and puking into a trashcan, and one clearly high as a kite.

Caitlin lifts up and down on the tips of her toes, all nervous energy, and checks the back of his head every twenty seconds or so. "We really need to disinfect this." She pokes gently around his wound, careful not to cause him too much discomfort, and starts rummaging through cabinets once they hit the ten-minute mark. He wouldn't know his way around this room if someone drew him a map, but Caitlin seems perfectly at ease here—she grabs some gauze, a bulb syringe, and some antibiotic cream, laying it all out on a tray she carries over to him.

Out in the hallway, the school bell rings.

"I need to find Iris." He stands up. Much too fast, it turns out, because the room starts spinning around him. "She'll wonder where I am."

"You sit down." Caitlin pulls at his arm, causing him to plunk back down on the bed. "You could be concussed."

He wouldn't be surprised if he were—he's certain the nausea has more to do with the terror still tremoring through his body, and his eyesight has returned to normal, but there's a light ringing in his ears. His mom's going to go ballistic. And Iris. Oh. Iris.

"I'll go find her." Ronnie comes to his aid again, and leaves the room in search of his best friend.

Caitlin cleans his wound with water, some of it trickling in a warm line down his back, but he doesn't say a word—he has his eyes closed the whole time, wincing when Caitlin applies some ointment, but mostly marvels at the way her fingers comb through his hair, careful, measured. It's not the ideal situation; in his wildest dreams she does so softly and they're face to face, smiling gently at each other as they drown in the other's eyes, imagining supernovas and black holes, time travel and multiple universes. But she's gentle now, all the same. He can see her do this for the rest of her life, take care of people when they need her help, patch up their wounds and send them home a little less broken. She'll make one amazing Dr Snow.

"You're good at this," he says, reaching around to touch his wound—it earns him a slap to his forearm. Best not to tempt his doctor's wrath.

Caitlin takes off her blue latex gloves, her eyes downcast. "My mom taught me a lot about nursing."

His headache fades into a dull ache, the ringing in his ears calming to a breeze. What he wouldn't give to read her mind. What he wouldn't give to have met her mom or known Caitlin before she died; maybe he'd understand Ronnie's unerring need to look after her. He can't imagine losing a parent, either one of them, and given how tight the Snow family seemed her entire world must've been turned upside down. One thing he's learned about Caitlin: she's not a big fan of change.

"You never talk about her," his mouth speaks of its own accord; he'd scold himself if he thought it the wrong thing to say, if he thought it would push Caitlin away. But weeks ago, when she'd showed up on his doorstep, she'd mentioned her mom unprompted. It allowed for a little more leeway on his part.

"Some days—" Caitlin wrings her hands together but looks up, shaking her head imperceptibly.

She shouldn't look this beautiful this sad.

"I play this game—in my head." She swallows. "What would I give up for just one more minute with her? For Charlie to just have one more minute with her? My friends? My future? The rest of my life?"

He reaches over without thinking, folding a hand over both of hers. Ronnie was right; Caitlin hides it well, too well perhaps, but she needs looking after. She needs people asking about her mom from time to time, not ignore her past because it's changed her.

Her hands are cold.

"It's stupid"—Caitlin laughs, her voice thick with tears—"because I know she's gone."

Caitlin's eyes fix on him, shedding any misgivings there might exist between them, any pretense that they don't see each other as clearly as if they were under a microscope. "But some days I forget."

"Cait."

He drifts closer; he's never seen her drop her guard like this, never seen her cry, and he shouldn't think about how beautiful she looks, how the light glints in her deep brown eyes or her cheeks have blossomed pink, but he's also never been this in love with her. "I'm so sorry."

Caitlin upturns the palms of her hands and lets his fingers drift down in them, taking in a deep breath. She sniffles and her shoulders shake a little, but he watches her push through the brunt of the assault, the quiet battle she has with her heart playing behind her eyes—it's a masterful display of a war she must fight every day, a trade she makes to get through one day, and another, and the next.

"Thank you," she whispers.

What would he give up to never see her cry again? His sanity? Iris? His family? He may have already sacrificed some common sense for Caitlin Snow—he wouldn't shed any tears losing it for her completely.

"Barr, oh my God"—Iris storms through the door, Ronnie not far behind her—"are you okay?"

Caitlin smoothly pulls back her hands, and gets up to clean up after herself. He'd lament the interruption if it weren't for the cold of Caitlin's hands lingering in his, and Iris starting to fuss all over him. It isn't the first time she surveys the damage Tony did, and it's not the first time she breaks out in an angry rant.

"I can't believe this guy," Iris fumes. "This wasn't acceptable in grade school and you don't have to put up with this now. We are going to the principal right now—"

"He should probably see his dad first," Caitlin says, the opportune moment for him to catch his best friend's attention. He's so incredibly grateful to have someone like Iris in his life, someone who'd fight for him at a moment's notice and go face his bullies, but her anger isn't going to help him now, or help him deal with Tony. It might even make him a bigger target. He can't believe Tony did what he thought he had coming from Ronnie, or that Tony may have acted out of some messed up sense of loyalty, but this might be his fault. He's been flirting with Caitlin and he's terrible at hiding it.

"Iris, I swear I'm fine."

Iris looks up at Caitlin, then at him, but her shoulders don't relax. Luckily he's somewhat convinced she won't hunt down Tony and hang him upside down from the rafters. "This better not ruin our prom pictures."

"Our?" His eyebrows shoot up. "Prom pictures?"

Iris smiles sweetly, obvious payback for making her back off Tony. "Didn't I tell you you'll be my date?"

He chuckles as Iris helps him up. It's customary to be asked to the prom, but he suspects that at some point these past weeks he'd agreed to be her date to prom; Eddie couldn't make it down in time and he wouldn't let Iris go alone if she didn't want to—it's a small sacrifice, especially since Caitlin would be there too. It might be a good trial run for his senior prom next year. He should probably get a tux.

The four of them head out to the parking lot, Ronnie to his left, Iris and Caitlin to his right. His legs have found their bearings again, though his head's four times its size and he'll need a few aspirin if he wants to avoid a migraine. Best to let his dad check him over first.

"You're going to prom together?" Caitlin asks Iris. "Maybe we can share a limo."

Iris hooks her arm in Caitlin's, skipping a few steps ahead so they can talk in private—he has the creeping suspicion he'll have to step up his game by prom next week. He'll have to get Iris a corsage and make sure to check what color her dress will be, and he'll have to coordinate with Ronnie when to pick up their dates.

"I'm sorry about Tony, man," Ronnie says.

"It's okay. I probably had it coming."

Hang on. _What?_

"Not that I've been—" _flirting with your girlfriend_? _incredibly attracted to your girlfriend for the past year_? _thinking about asking her out_? He rubs the back of his neck, wincing when that proves to worsen his headache. He supposes he has been steadily digging his own grave when it came to other people noticing his feelings for Caitlin—and who better than her boyfriend?

He sighs. "Awesome."

They exit the school, where Iris tells him to wait while she gets the car—Ronnie tosses Caitlin his keys so she can do the same. Ronnie stays behind to make sure he doesn't pass out. He must have some kind of death wish, putting himself in Ronnie's path, especially after admitting to liking Caitlin. But Ronnie pretty much saved his life, asked him to look out for Caitlin when he must've known how he felt, and he's here watching him now. If Caitlin defied categorization by high school standards, Ronnie Raymond's in that same league with her.

"Why are you so nice to me?" he asks carefully, not sure he needs to hear the answer.

"I don't choose her friends for her." Ronnie shrugs, another prime example of him being _the bigger person_ and he wishes he could hate him. He wishes he knew what it meant to be a nice guy and not constantly have to measure up to the school's star athlete. But he's long since realized Ronnie's only the bad guy in his imagination.

"You make her laugh, too," Ronnie adds, the striking blow.

Barry Allen: 0.

Ronnie Raymond: 1.

.

.

He stays home for two days under his mom's and dad's careful supervision—he doesn't have a concussion, but between his parents talking to the school, and talking to Tony's parents through the principal's office they recommended he stay home to nurse his injuries. Tony got suspended pending further investigation, but according to Iris they'd talked to Caitlin and Ronnie and anyone else who might have seen the fight. With any luck the whole matter will be resolved by the time he returns to school. Iris brings by his homework, and usually finds him buried in his books, the one thing his parents hadn't been able to dissuade him from—he could've been concussed or have the flu and no one would stop him from taking these exams. Studying hours on end probably shouldn't give him the boost it results in, but he gets more work done in two days than he has the past week.

"Barry, honey"—his mom knocks faintly at his bedroom door—"are you awake?"

"Yeah, I'm up," he calls, leafing through his notes for a specific post-it he distinctly remembers making, but he must've lost it somewhere. There's a kink in his neck and his eyes are dry—what time is it?—and he doesn't so much as look up when his mom pushes through the door. He's never been this focused in his life, nor has he ever wanted to prove himself more than in his current state—he feels rather invincible, and it's not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

"Caitlin's downstairs."

"Caitlin?" His head snaps up, and he quietly notes his mom's fond smile. Why would Caitlin be here? Dr Wells let everyone use their AP Chemistry hours for studying this week, so there's no homework to go over, no labs that need to be filed, and she hadn't texted him she'd be dropping by. Did something happen with Tony? Or Ronnie?

"I'll be right down," he says while struggling to disentangle his legs from the sheets. He'd been wearing PJs all week so he puts on a clean shirt and changes into a pair of sweatpants, quickly dropping into the bathroom to make sure his hair looks okay—he drags a hand through it a few times, still muddling through it as he descends the stairs.

Caitlin's on the couch in the living room watching Charlie, who's excitedly playing with Krypto. She looks less out of place than she had before, set off in red and blue against the gray couch cushions—she sits relaxed and smiling, content to watch her brother play. He could watch her like this for hours, at home in his home, a space he knows as intimately as he dreams of knowing her.

"Barry. Hey." Caitlin stands the moment she sees him, closing the distance between them to a few inches so fast it makes his head reel. "Can you say 'hi' to Barry, Charlie?"

"Hi, Barry." Charlie waves, but most of his attention remains on Krypto.

"Hey, buddy."

It's the most active he's seen Charlie since the day they were introduced, open and talkative and making silly noises. He gets the sense Charlie hasn't been that outgoing since his mom died.

"Something wrong?" he asks Caitlin, folding his arms over his chest—he doesn't know what to do with his limbs with Caitlin this close, and he can't figure out why she came. It's not that he doesn't want her here, or that he's not happy she came by, it just seems odd she wouldn't let him know first. He didn't think they had the kind of friendship that allowed the other to drop in unannounced—Iris did that all the time, but she came by to see his mom or dad as often as she came by to see him.

Caitlin wrings her hands together. "I wanted to—make sure you were okay," she says, and walks over to her purse to unearth a few handwritten pages. "I have some extra notes you might find interesting."

He grabs around the pages gratefully, three papers filled with Caitlin's tidy penmanship, all things to look out for during the AP Chemistry exam. Is that what she's here for? He could've gotten all this information online, or she could've emailed, something she's done unprompted in the past. It's weird that the thought occurs so spontaneously, but the notes sound an awful lot like an excuse.

What other reason could Caitlin have to come by? Surely not Krypto, and even still she doesn't have to hide that from him—if Krypto got Charlie out of his shell he wouldn't mind if she came by every day, or offered to take Krypto for a walk. Maybe he could even join them.

Now he doesn't know what to say; asking her about the exams seems boring, and there isn't much else going on in his life right now. Why are things so awkward?

Caitlin's the one to break the silence, even if she avoids eye contact. "Ronnie had a talk with the football team."

He doesn't know what to say to that either—it's a long overdue talk, to be honest, given how many of the football players pester the nerds for help with their homework, or expect them to be at their beck and call. The school monitors that kind of behavior closely, but they don't catch everything, and the thought that Ronnie's out there doting out good deeds for all the misfits and the nerds almost makes him glad he got beat up. Almost.

Barry: 0.

Ronnie: 2.

"He's really sorry about what happened," Caitlin says, worrying her bottom lip, her voice lowering to a small meek tone. "I am, too."

He can't believe she's here apologizing again. What happened isn't her fault, it isn't even Ronnie's. This is all on Tony. And he understands; Tony acted on what he saw, thought he'd been flirting with Caitlin too much and if Ronnie wouldn't say anything Tony would be the one to get the message across. But Tony was the only one at fault here.

"Tony thought he—" Caitlin falls a step back, balling her hands into fists. Her head shakes one time as she stares at her feet, talking to herself more than she's talking to him. "He shouldn't have—"

He takes a step forward. "Cait—"

"I care about you, Barry."

Caitlin's eyes find his in between two beats of his heart, and he swears the next few still for an indeterminable few seconds. She's angry and disappointed, and frustration knits tears into the corners of her eyes.

"I won't apologize for that. Not to anyone."

Has someone been speaking for her again? Has someone questioned her judgment and her choices during the few moments he hadn't been looking? Why would she apologize for caring? Who'd be bothered enough to—

"What happened?" he asks, guided by his train of thought, his instincts around Caitlin. She kept her feelings inside, staid them right below the surface of her skin so she wouldn't have to wade through them every minute of every day—it's how she protected her heart, her mind, her sense of self. So to show up here angry with some faceless stranger—something must be wrong.

"Ronnie and I had a fight about Tony." Caitlin retreats another step back, rubbing at her forearms. "Actually, I shouted at him and he listened. And then I shouted about how Jake never leaves Cisco alone, and the way Lexi used to treat me."

That's his Caitlin, all right. Always fighting to get the last word. Something tells him there's more to the fight than she lets on, why else would she be here talking to him of all people? Did they fight because of him? Did Caitlin accuse Ronnie of sending Tony after him, or not discouraging him enough? Wild speculation traces up and down his spine and he's afraid to ask, he's afraid to even think it—had Ronnie accused Caitlin of giving Tony a reason to beat him up?

"Did you guys break up?"

Caitlin shakes her head.

No, of course not. Caitlin had stood up for the nerds, for every boy and girl who got threatened by anyone on Ronnie's team; she'd spoken for the Barry Allens entering elementary school and all the Cisco Ramons yet to follow. Defying categorization might protect Caitlin from her old nemesis Lexi Laroche now, but she remained loyal to where she came from. A nerd. Like the rest of them.

"He talked to the football team." Caitlin sighs. Whatever the outcome of the fight it's clear she's still angry, that she needed someone to talk to. But given the reason for their fight he's not sure he's the best person for that. "And I'm pretty sure Iris talked to the cheerleaders."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Caitlin crosses her arms over her chest, digs her toes into the carpet, oscillating left to right. "Ronnie and I—" she says, pausing to look at the floor. Her curls fall down over her face and he can't read her body language, more evasive than he's ever seen, "—probably won't work out either."

All sound fades from the room. Caitlin's words hang in the air between them, scattered across the distance, trapped in a space neither have addressed in so many words.

He doesn't know what to say.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	6. Chapter 6

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter six

.

.

A nervous energy spreads through the school in the week that follows, a shared solidarity for all the students taking the AP exams combined with the realization that a few weeks from now they'll all be taking finals. For all its problems with regards to bullying and the school's inability to chase it all down, the student body falls silent. For a few blissful weeks each year the nerds get all the leeway.

Everyone's cramming, they all feel the pressure, the senior class most of all. He hasn't heard the words 'Ronnie' and 'going out' in the same sentence for a long while, and it shouldn't sit as fine with him as it does, but he can't deny that having Caitlin to himself—even with Cisco and Hartley in the room—is a lot more fun than trying to make small talk with her boyfriend.

Cisco and Hartley joined their study group earlier than he expected, but once Cisco laid out how studying with Hartley was as distracting as he'd found studying with Caitlin to be, they joined forces to regain their focus. Safe to say it proved to be one of the best decisions they'd ever made; their table in the library buzzed with lively discussion about the basic tenements of physics, about the most elegant chemical reactions, and math being the closest we'll ever come to the handwriting of God—Cisco's contribution after having seen _Pacific Rim_ one too many times.

Mrs Bates kicked them out for being overly noisy not three minutes ago.

"The handwriting of God, dude?" he asks, while he watches Caitlin hurry towards her locker to get all the books she'll need at home. If she's unhappy about getting kicked out she doesn't show it, so he assumes they'll be back at it tomorrow. He can't figure out why this had all seemed so frightening not a month ago, when having Caitlin in his orbit caused nothing but distress and a mild myocardial infarction. She's a girl, like he's a boy, and she's only really scary when she's right about something everyone else disagrees on—her lips will set in a straight line and her eyes will catch fire, but she'll only ever use logic to fight her battles.

"It's a good movie!" Cisco squeaks, with the same kind of enthusiasm they'd applied to theoretical physics not a moment ago, and the kind of indignation Hartley deserves a lot more than he does. Unlike Hartley he understands and appreciates most of Cisco's pop culture references. "If we lived in the _Pacific Rim_ universe, you and Caitlin would be Drift compatible."

"No, we'd be the science nerds who save the day."

Cisco chooses not to disagree with him. There's no conceivable world he can think of where he and Caitlin would meld minds with a giant robot to fight creatures from another dimension—he likes to think they'd be smarter than that—and Hartley and Cisco, while possibly Drift compatible, wouldn't be caught dead in a Jaeger either. They'd be the ones searching for solutions, rather than dive headfirst into a fistfight with an alien.

"Let's not pretend you don't notice she's sweet on you," Hartley says.

" _What?_ " he and Cisco shake out of their fanboy stupor in unison, the shockwaves oscillating between them near measurable. Caitlin isn't _sweet on him_. Caitlin likes him and she cares for him, but that doesn't mean there are any other feelings involved. He's accepted that they're friends and they're in a good place; _he's_ in a good place devoid of white knight fantasies and villainous quarterbacks. Why did every nice thing Caitlin said to him have to be analyzed? Or vice versa, why did every word he uttered about Caitlin live in the shadow of his crush on her?

"Once Ronnie Raymond's out of the picture you might actually stand a chance."

Cisco scoffs.

Okay. Now he's insulted.

He's not completely blind or ignorant; Caitlin isn't near as out of his league as he once believed her to be, but that's a byproduct of their friendship—he's learned to talk to her without stammering through every conversation or his cheeks burning out of fear he trip over his words and confess his undying love for her. Sometimes he wishes he could, just to get it off his chest. It didn't even have to mean anything; it could simply exist as a fact, out there in the open, without reaching a boiling point every time Caitlin did something to surprise him.

"Cisco disagrees"—Hartley rolls his eyes—"but he wouldn't see it if it hit him in the face."

This earns Hartley a loving poke along his waist, while his head reels around the implications. What would Cisco pick up on if he could? Caitlin hasn't shown him any interest beyond being his friend, and his study buddy, and his healthy competition.

Why would Hartley put that kind of thought in his head? His brain can only take so much.

"How—" he breathes, shakes his head and closes his eyes. This is too much to take. He's still meant to work with Caitlin and now Hartley's words will buzz in his ears every time he so much as looks her way. "How did you guys ever even—"

He opens his eyes to his two friends smiling, and he refrains from asking. Cisco filled him in on some of the story, how much he'd hated Hartley's beady eyes and his stupid freckles, how Hartley could sound like dick in three different languages, two of which he couldn't even understand properly—and then something had changed. Everything that bugged Cisco before became endearing; the targeted insults, Hartley's beautiful green eyes, the freckles mapped out on his skin, the sweet Spanish Hartley whispered in his ear. It'd been more information than he needed, but he figured since Cisco listened to him spin poetic about Felicity and Caitlin, the least he could do was listen.

None of that meant he comprehended the complicated way Cisco's dislike had shifted into love. Or how he and Hartley worked as a couple.

Hartley smiles, drawing his arm around Cisco's waist, and pulls his boyfriend closer. "Opposites attract, Bartholomew."

"Bartholomew?" Caitlin's voice sounds.

He freezes.

How much of their conversation had she heard? How much backpedalling and denying has he signed up for? Opposites? He and Caitlin weren't opposites—were they? They're both shy, in a way that Caitlin's rather more withdrawn than bashful, but they were both passionate about science, and attached to their families, and— _he's going to kill Hartley_.

Turning around slowly, Caitlin's clearly ready to leave; her backpack is packed and she has her keys in hand. Her eyes are wide and beautiful and yes, _yes_ , he wishes could see exactly how sweet she is on him, if only a little bit, if only for a moment. It must be quite something to be loved by Caitlin Snow.

"That's your name?"

He releases a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding, and fixes Hartley with a hard stare. In true Allen family tradition he'd received his grandfather's name when he was born, like Henry had been his dad's grandfather's name. His grandma—and Hartley—were the only ones who ever used it. His grandma remained the only one unaware of how much he loathed his full name. "See what you've done?"

" _Mea culpa_." Hartley raises his hands in surrender, while Cisco tries not to laugh.

"Are you guys ready?" Caitlin asks, the thickness in her voice betraying her own amusement. Maybe if Caitlin starts calling him Bartholomew he'll magically start liking the sound of it. Doubtful. But one can hope.

"Where are we going?"

"My house," Caitlin answers, and points at Hartley. "I'm not done disproving you."

They head out to the parking lot together, and he contemplates Hartley's words again. He doesn't need that kind of thinking from his friends; he doesn't need doubt layered over his feelings for Caitlin when she's clearly in a good relationship that makes her happy. It doesn't help him to wonder if Caitlin's _sweet on him_ or flirting, even if Ronnie were out of the picture—wouldn't that simply make him the next in line? A runner-up? He doesn't mind Caitlin beating him to the highest grade, but he won't come second choice to Ronnie.

A bump of Caitlin's shoulder shakes him from his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

He nods, "Yeah," though nothing could be further from the truth. He's been confused about his future for a long time now, and he could do without this added worry. "Just wondering how much leg space your car has."

.

.

The AP Chemistry exam turns out to be nothing at all like Dr Wells' tests, in fact he suspects he and the others breeze through it with little to no effort, but none of them leave the room complaining. Three exams later school life returns to normal for a while, and senior prom becomes the topic on everyone's minds; he buys his tickets one rainy Thursday afternoon under Iris' supervision, and it's worth her beaming smile alone. Iris and Caitlin go shopping for dresses together, and his dad takes him out to rent a black tuxedo—the shopkeeper teaches him how to knot his bowtie, but once prom night comes around he needs his dad's help with the remarkably resilient piece of fabric.

He walks to Iris' house. Ronnie and Caitlin would pick them up there with the limo.

"Hey, kid!" Joe calls from the living room table as he enters the house.

He never bothers knocking anymore; Joe would fall over laughing.

Despite the fact that it's been the two of them since her mom left, Iris and her dad live in one of the homiest houses on the block—a sense of family lived in every nook and cranny, in the dark wood of the stairs and the picture frames on every wall and he can't recall a playdate or meal when that wasn't the case. Joe, while strict, made sure Iris had everything she needed, became a mom and a dad to her, and the few times Iris couldn't talk to her dad she came to his mom—girl stuff, he imagined, but he never asked for details.

"Hey, Joe."

"How'd she rope you into this?" Joe makes his way over, both of them at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Iris. He's running a bit late, so it shouldn't be too long.

"She caught me in a moment of weakness."

"Would you two stop?" Iris' voice sounds from the top of the stairs.

His jaw goes slack once he sees her, his eyes ticking down her gold dress, flowing long but breezy around her legs. He's never seen her in a dress like this; it must've cost a fortune.

"I rented it," Iris says, as if scolding him for ever thinking her that fickle with her money. "What do you think?"

He glances at Joe because he doesn't immediately find an answer, left a little speechless, and he honestly feels sorry for Eddie for missing this. There's no doubt in his mind Eddie will hear all about this, made to regret his absence twice over once Iris gets him alone again—tonight she's all his, and he's proud to call himself her best friend.

Joe has tears in his eyes. "Who are you and what have you done with my baby girl?"

"Daddy." Iris descends the stairs and throws her arms around her dad's neck.

They pose for the mandatory prom pictures, a few traditional poses and a few silly ones, before they make it out onto the porch to wait for the limo.

"This won't be weird for you, will it?" Iris asks, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. "With Caitlin and—"

He can't believe this. Does he have to hear this from Iris too? Why do people around him keep implying Caitlin likes him back? Why do they feel the need to share their opinions with him? He could do without. Where does Ronnie fit into all this? Has everyone magically forgotten about him?

"We're friends, Iris."

"You're sort of not." Iris defies. "You study together under the guise of friendship while really you're both dancing around the fact that you like each other."

"Have you been talking to Hartley?"

"No." Iris eyes him suspiciously. "Why?"

He sighs, entirely unwilling to go into this again. "Caitlin and I are friends. Nothing—" _Nothing has happened_. _Nothing has been happening_. _Nothing will happen_. Next year they'll be right back where they are now: lab partners who like to compete for the highest grade. That's not a bad thing. Caitlin challenges him the way Dr Wells challenges him, to do better, to be a better scientist. That's his dream as much as it is Caitlin's. "You're reading too much into it."

"She likes you, Barr," Iris says. "Who wouldn't?"

Well, her boyfriend for one.

It doesn't matter whether or not Caitlin likes him. She's with Ronnie, and that's her choice—why would she flirt with him when she's in a committed relationship with someone who makes her happy? Caitlin isn't the girl who goes behind her boyfriend's back and strings along the first chump with a crush on her. Clearly Iris and Hartley are delusional.

A black limo pulls up in front of the house, honking to get their attention.

He holds the door for Iris and patiently waits for her to hoist her dress inside, and gets in behind her. Ronnie and Caitlin sit opposite them, Ronnie's jacket draped over Caitlin's shoulders to keep her warm—her hair's done up in an intricate twist, small hoops dangling from her ears, a million dollar smile accentuated by rosy cheeks, and it's all— _well_. He'd prepared to be amazed, for his eyes to meet with new colors painted along Caitlin's features, her neckline, her long legs. It's a lot to take in within the confines of the car.

"You look beautiful," he blurts out, interrupting the usual pleasantries everyone had been exchanging.

The car falls eerily silent, Ronnie and Iris and Caitlin all staring at him, and his mouth runs dry. Had he said that out loud? He didn't mean to—

"Thank you." Caitlin's lips slide into a grateful smile. "Who knew you looked so dashing in a tux."

He grins from ear to ear but hides it in a sideway glance, staring out the window while he tries his best to school his expression—he can't go around doting compliments like that in front of Ronnie. _Get a grip_ , Barry Allen. He's doing this for Iris, to make her senior prom as memorable as he can, not to chase his crush where it might lead down the rabbit hole. Tony might be there tonight, and he'd rather not end up with a black eye in any of the pictures.

He sits silent for the rest of the drive.

For the occasion the prom committee transformed the school's dull gym into a true winter spectacle—leave it to Carmichael High to go for a winter theme at the height of summer, but the room's beautifully decorated; multicolored fairy lights hang from the ceiling, while curtains of white lights wall the dance floor on two sides. At the back there's a small stage for a local band that'll more than likely play near the end of the evening, a section at the front cordoned off for tables, two long tables with refreshments to the left.

He and Iris pose for another traditional prom picture underneath a white arch, but she soon finds her friends and leaves him to hang out with them, show off her dress, and talk about whatever it is girls talk about. He's more than willing to spend a few hours like this, being Iris' arm candy when she needs him to be, but otherwise invisible. What are best friends for.

Caitlin and Ronnie dance to a few songs, stand by the refreshment table and laugh together, and drift from one table to the next talking to people they know. Not once does Caitlin's smile falter, and not once does she sit down to rest her feet. She's returned Ronnie's jacket and shows off her dress same as Iris—deep blue with an asymmetrical hemline, complementing her high heels—the blue matching the room's winter theme along with her last name. He wishes he had the confidence to pull her aside to talk, but scarcely knows what they'd talk about. School doesn't seem like the right topic tonight, nor finals. Maybe summer, and their upcoming plans on how to spend it.

"Are you having a good time?"

"Hmm?" he hums, shaken abruptly from his thoughts of Paris and London, and looks straight up into Caitlin's beaming smile.

"I asked if you were having a good time."

"I am."

"You are a terrible liar." Caitlin scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. It doesn't match the elegant dress she wears.

"No, I am."

Caitlin raises an eyebrow. It's clear she reads him better than he gives her credit for; not that he doesn't give her plenty of credit in many other areas. Does he have tells the way she does? Can Caitlin read his features the way he reads her eyes and lips and shoulders?

"I'm here for Iris."

"Come dance with me."

He blinks. "What?"

Caitlin holds out a hand. "Dance with me, Barry Allen."

"I don't really—" His eyes scour the crowd for Iris, but she's nowhere to be seen and probably wouldn't be any help, and he catches Ronnie heading out into the hallway with some of his friends. Oh God, is there no escaping this? Where's Tony when he needed him? His mom had offered to teach him some steps, but he'd declined—Iris knew better than to ask him for a dance. Only now he wishes he had moves. _Any moves_. "I'm not too good on my feet."

"It's not that hard." Caitlin grabs around his wrist and pulls him out of his chair. "Come on, I'll show you."

Guiding him to the dance floor Caitlin seems positively giddy and his feet follow like they have strings attached—he's sure he's dreamed of this moment, of having her so impossibly close no atom could come between them, but now that it's here he remembers his uncontrollable limbs and lack of coordination, his difficulty breathing around her. Caitlin guides his right hand to her waist, where it settles somewhere between her hip and the small of her back, delicately perfect. His left hand's held in her right, and hers lands on his shoulder, her thumb sneaking under the lapels of his jacket.

He releases a breath and finds Caitlin's eyes—with her heels she's not much shorter than him, an inch or two maybe, and as she laughs her breath trips along his jawline. What do they look like to people watching them? Could they be mistaken for a couple? What would they be like, if they were? Would he be quick to touch her, even quicker with a kiss? Or would they be subtler than that, steal glances in class, secret a smile between them at the thought of kissing each other later? What would her lips feel like against his? He imagines they'd be soft, and careful, trade affection for the same in return.

"See?"

He chuckles, and stares down at his feet, unaware they'd started moving. "Nothing to it."

Caitlin smiles, and draws a step closer. Her chest touches his, and he hopes she can't feel his heart racing faster than the speed of light, or if she does she won't point it out. His heart might never slow down again, not as long as Caitlin's in his life.

"What I said about Ronnie the other week..."

It should ruin the mood; Ronnie couldn't be farther from his mind right now, but he's on Caitlin's, so he won't do her the discourtesy of pretending not to know what she's talking about. Whatever she said last week she'd felt vulnerable, whatever she and Ronnie fought about had left her wanting his company. Whatever she means to say now he'll listen.

"You had a fight."

"He's good to me, and he makes me laugh," Caitlin says. "But we're complete opposites."

"You know those attract, right?" he asks, and can't make out why she broached the topic in the first place. He's glad Caitlin feels like she can come to him, like she can share when she's down, but she doesn't have to explain. He might not understand how they work, but he didn't understand how Hartley and Cisco worked and they were more in love than ever.

Caitlin shakes her head, laughing. "Don't get smart with me, Barry Allen."

He laughs, and like so often happens when he's near Caitlin the rest of the room fades, now into streaks of different colors, like a rainbow drawing around them. He could get used to dancing if it's like this. If it's with her.

If he thought Caitlin couldn't get any closer he's proven wrong when she pushes another step forward, and they come to a standstill in the middle of the dance floor. Both her hands settle on his chest, right over his heart.

He forgets how to breathe.

Where should he put his hands? His right's still awkwardly clinging to Caitlin's hip, and his left's sort of settling around her back of its own accord. If he held her any closer they'd be hugging.

"I wanted to thank you," Caitlin says, her smile lifting a little, but not enough to reach her eyes—as if she hasn't yet settled on what to say.

"What for?"

"These past few weeks." Caitlin bites at her lower lip, eyes tracing down his face, down to his collar, where they settle for the time being. She thumbs at his bowtie, smiling gently. "I don't really have that many friends—who really get me. Or that I can talk to."

"Cait—" he whispers, but he's cut short by Caitlin's eyes, caught in a splendor of pink and blue and purple from the fairy lights on the ceiling—she can talk to him about anything, anywhere, anytime. She could call him in the middle of the night and he'd answer, show up on his doorstep and he'd give her shelter. She can even talk to him about Ronnie, if that's what she needs.

"You've made me feel like I belong again."

He remembers how to breathe; a thank you is more than he deserves for the few times they've talked about things that mattered, but he never realized she'd felt so out of place. Anyone might see it hasn't been easy for her, and maybe her greatest critics had been right—the bright colors she wears were meant to disguise how disjointed she'd become with the world at large, how she battled to find herself after losing her mom. But he could never take credit for helping her relocate.

So he doesn't say a word. He lets silence take hold in the vacuum they've commanded, while they stare at each other a little too long for it not to mean anything. Maybe Caitlin clings to the few people left to care for. Maybe that's what everyone's been picking up on.

Caitlin lies her head against his collarbone and sways to the music with him, lost in her own world of thought where Barry Allen has meaning to a life that's gotten lonelier since her mom died—it was one thing to be valued by Ronnie, but it's a whole other to have made an impact on Caitlin's life. How could he ever sacrifice what they've built over the past month to something as trifle as admitting he has a crush? This friendship's worth more than feelings he hasn't properly figured out yet.

His cheek brushes against her hair, his senses filling with a soft raspberry scent, and he promises her, wordlessly, that he'll always be there to catch her should she fall.

.

.

Summer hits its stride in the beginning of June, which makes for more than a few sour faces around school—the blistering sun compels most students to go outside, to sunbathe or go out for a picnic, not sit at home studying. Still, no one escapes finals week. Few people choose to study in the library, even though the air-conditioning turns the room chilly, but sit outside on the grassy fields or the bleachers instead. He wouldn't get much work done out there. There'll be plenty of sunshine over the summer, more than enough opportunities to soak up his vitamin D, and he for one won't let the sun distract him from the important things.

Caitlin's phone alerts them to the end of another forty minutes. Time for a break. "Ugh," she groans, and lies her head down on top of her French notes. "If I see one more _exception_ or _attention_ I'm going to start crying."

He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out long underneath the table. "You make French sound worse than Spanish."

"It is worse." Caitlin's lip curls in disgust.

"You don't share a class with Cisco."

"You don't share one with Hartley." Caitlin lifts her head off the table. "He speaks four languages and he's fluent in all of them. I don't even know why he takes the class."

He supposes she has him there; Cisco might be fluent in Spanish but Hartley has an entire arsenal of linguistic tools at his disposal. Why his parents, with all their money and wealth had ever sent him to public school is beyond him, and the reason for Hartley's staying even less comprehensible. Unless, of course, the latter reason was Cisco.

They get up and go for a short walk, wrangling some chilled sodas from the vending machines outside, and share a small bag of chips—ten minutes and they have to be back in the library studying, _Caitlin's rules_ , but it might afford him the time to finally ask her something.

"A while back," he starts, after they find a shaded section not yet occupied by some part of the student body, "you told me you talked to Dr Wells? About your major?"

"I did." Caitlin nods, and stares down at the soda can, fiddling with the tab. "I always thought—with what my mom and dad do"—she swallows—" _did_ ," she corrects, "that I'd somehow follow in their footsteps."

The tab comes off, and she walks it over to a nearby trashcan. He wonders if losing her mom warranted the conversation with Dr Wells, if everything got so terribly confused that she needed advice from someone not known to sugarcoat things. His mom used to be in advertising, which she gave up to raise him and take care of the household, but she still used what she learned in the charities she boarded on. He could never do what his mom does, he lacks the proper skills, and as far as his dad's medical degree's concerned he's not sure that'd be the right fit either.

"But you have to make those kinds of choices for yourself, not others." Caitlin returns empty-handed, but with the strength to look him in the eye. "I have an interest in medicine, but I want to build things too. I don't want to deal with people the way my dad does."

Of course. What would Caitlin Snow be without her state-of-the-art lab, her own private space to work and think and create?

"You're going into bioengineering," he says. It's not a question; with everything he's learned about her it isn't hard to figure out.

Caitlin's features go blank. "You don't think I could?"

"I think you can do anything you put your mind to, Dr Snow."

Caitlin perks up, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know what I want to focus on." He shrugs. He's good at a lot of things; chemistry, biology, physics, they all hold a special interest for him—how does he whittle that down to a single choice? There are so many options, probably even more than he can imagine. "I could do what my dad does. I could go into bioengineering. I don't know what my choice is."

"Talk to Dr Wells," Caitlin says, with that sort of wise quirk in her brow that underscores how together she has her life, despite everything that she's lost. "Talk to your parents. Maybe do some research about what's out there. We have to start thinking about these things."

"Yeah."

Felicity told him the same thing last year, while she studied and memorized the entire MIT brochure. It seemed so easy for her to say when she'd already decided, her choices cemented around a sense of belonging at a college she wouldn't go to for another two years. He's not sure he's ever felt that anywhere else but home, here in Central City, or among the people he cared about the most. But should he let home or other people guide his future?

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He runs a hand down his face—it's not nothing. This has been bothering him since he and Felicity broke up and he's done little to assuage that worry. He hasn't talked to Dr Wells or his parents, or talked to anyone in the counselor's office. Out of sight and out of mind has been his motto for far too long. Look where it's gotten him—confused, scared of what the future holds, trapped in a line of thinking that won't get him anywhere. Because avoiding his problems hasn't ever presented a solution.

"It's just—"

It's just that it's not nothing at all. This bothers him more than most of his concerns combined and he won't be able to avoid it for much longer.

"Felicity knew exactly what she wanted. So for a long time I thought I might want—what she wanted."

"That must be nice."

He catches the same forlorn stare in Caitlin's eyes he imagines lives in his, somewhere between understanding and longing, but whereas he hopes to find a solution to his problem, he guesses Caitlin thinks about a boyfriend who might share her interests. His and Felicity's never overlapped completely, but at least they were both nerds. Sometimes he's ashamed to admit he still wonders what Caitlin sees in Ronnie.

"It is," he agrees, though not for the same reasons Caitlin implies, "and it's confusing."

What if Felicity hadn't moved? What if they'd worked out and he'd based his choices on hers? Would that have made him happy? Would that have been good for them in the long run? Or would he have resented Felicity for never pushing him to make his own choice? It's not fair to think about Felicity that way, to blame her in a 'what if' scenario for his indecision—he's just really lost and confused. Why can't he sit down behind a computer and do some research? What's stopping him? Why is this so hard? He wants to go to college, he wants to keep learning and expand his knowledge and become a great scientist.

What's holding him back?

Caitlin's fingers snag around two of his.

How he ever managed to stop from startling the next few tiles over is a mystery to him.

"Talk to Dr Wells," Caitlin reiterates, and squeezes at his fingers—he tries his best not to look at her lips, to focus on her eyes only and pretend he hasn't thought about kissing her every day over the past few weeks. He's so hopeless when it comes to Caitlin it's gotten downright embarrassing.

He nods, and licks his lips, his heart nearly punching through his ribcage. "Okay, I will," he says, flexing his fingers once Caitlin skips ahead, headed back to the library. Hopeless and so far gone, he muses, and a little starved for oxygen.

.

.

Finals are over faster than he can blink, it seems, an entire week gone in service of school and study before everyone releases a collective sigh of relief. School may be routine for him, he may move around in it comfortably, but even he's glad finals are over—stress leaves his shoulders and the rest of his body, and he soon starts looking forward to seeing his best friend graduate, another thing Iris can't shut up about. He can't say he blames her, all of the seniors are in a state of excitement bordering panic, even though there's little to be done about their fates. Finals are over, and their teachers were working hard grading and assessing their work in time.

"No, I'm not saying being her friend is a bad thing." Iris pushes through the doors of the front entrance, walking fast in the hopes of quickly picking up her cap and gown before going home again and start assembling an outfit to go underneath. Preferably one that matched in color. "I'm saying Hartley might be right."

"What happened to 'start seeing her like a real girl'?" he asks, quite ready for Iris to graduate if only to put a stop to these endless conversations that never get him anywhere. Hartley is not right, and for the first time in her life, Iris might have to admit she's wrong too. "Or 'not getting heartbroken over someone I'm not even dating'? Which, FYI, I'm not."

"I've seen her with you. And I've seen her with Ronnie."

"Ronnie makes her happy."

"She also said they wouldn't work out."

"And I'll—what?" he asks, struggling to keep up with Iris. "Be there to pick up the pieces?"

"Barry"—Iris whips around so abruptly he slams into her, their bodies a mess of limbs until he's got his bearings again; Iris' hard stare is nothing to be trifled with—"you're into her."

"That doesn't mean I want her to settle for me. I'm not—"

He'll happily be there to catch Caitlin if she falls, listen when she needs someone to talk to, offer his shoulder should she feel like crying, but he's—

How can he make this any clearer? He has enough of his own questions about Caitlin's potential feelings for him without everyone adding to them; his crush has lasted long enough for him to examine every inch of it and he's still not managed to make sense of it. Why can't everyone let him be, and stew, and lose his breath, all on his own?

"I'm done talking about this." He points at Iris. "And you're done confusing me. Caitlin is my friend."

Iris gives him a long hard stare. "Fine."

He doubts very much that'll be the last he hears of it, but for the time being he has other things on his mind—he didn't mindlessly follow Iris to school. He made an appointment to see Dr Wells to face one of the biggest decisions of his life head-on, without blinking. And yet he could throw up right now thinking about it.

The door to the chemistry lab is open wide, Dr Wells hunched over his desk digging through a pile of papers; the AP exams aren't in there, Dr Wells isn't in charge of those, but there are still plenty of students who sat a regular final for one of Dr Wells' classes—he can't imagine the amount of paperwork that entails.

"Mr. Allen"—Dr Wells takes note of his presence and gestures for him to come in, a chair placed strategically on the other side of the desk—"come on in."

Rationally he recognizes he came here for a reason, one Dr Wells probably has experience with, but his hands have gone clammy and his heart's racing, and not in the pleasant way they do around Caitlin—his stomach turns, and if he were steadfast on his feet he might bolt right out the door. He sits down opposite Dr Wells, down to his height, and can't meet his favorite teacher's eyes.

"You need help deciding on a major," Dr Wells says. "I must say I'm surprised."

He doubts many of his teachers would associate him with indecision, because it's never come up in class—Mr. Hewitt would never call him a sound public speaker, and Coach Garrick never makes him climb the rope, but his classes have generally lacked major life choices. It's not an easy thing for him to admit to a man he admires so much.

"I'm not good—with decisions. Or maybe just this one, I guess."

He wipes his hands down the length of his thighs. Thankfully Dr Wells accepts his statement for what it is and doesn't act particularly disappointed—he couldn't bear it if he were.

"It's not an easy one to make. I think you'll find most of your peers are struggling with the same thing."

"Not Caitlin."

"And not Ms. Smoak, I imagine." Dr Wells smiles. "There are, of course, exceptions, but you're not the only one, Mr. Allen. There's a lot to consider. College is a commitment you make, to your future, for yourself, sometimes even to others. And the prospect of leaving home can be daunting."

"The thing is—" He scoots to the edge of his chair, convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt of at least one thing. "I _want_ a college education. I want a degree and—" He throws up his hands. "But I don't know what to major in. Chemistry? Physics? I don't even know what's out there."

Dr Wells claps his hands together. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Wh—"

Has Dr Wells been waiting for him to come around? Dr Wells opens one of his desk drawers and unearths a thick binder, filled with one folder after the other, interspersed with pockets full of information. He should've realized Dr Wells came prepared for situations like his—no teacher would be so involved in his students' academic careers without tips on how to proceed.

"Have a look at this." Dr Wells hands him the binder. "Then we can talk."

"Thank you, Dr Wells."

There's nothing scarier than people telling him to figure out his future, to decide what the four to five years after high school should look like and where he should go to school. But there's something to be said about teachers who care, who guide their students to the best of their abilities, and take away some of the pressure. Whether the binder gives him any clue or not, Dr Wells won't be a teacher he soon forgets.

.

.

Graduation takes place outside on the lawn, parents and loved ones seated on the sun-heated bleachers while the seniors sit across the field on fold out chairs. It's unpleasantly hot and humid, and he sits between Eddie and Joe to boot, a promise he'd made to Iris the moment it became clear her dad didn't approve of her boyfriend. He gets along with Eddie well enough; they both love Iris in their own way and want what's best for her—but if Joe thought as he did he'd at the least tolerate Eddie. It isn't that he's not protective of Iris, he'd follow her into battle or start a war for her, but if she says Eddie makes her happy that's good enough for him. If he ever found out that wasn't the case, though, he'd happily let Joe shoot him.

He applauds at all the appropriate times, at every name that's called, but when the speaker calls Iris' name he jumps out of his seat—Joe and Eddie follow suit, cheering and whistling until they've made complete fools of themselves. It's hard to believe he'll be up there on that stage a year from now, that he'll have made a decision still spinning sickly circles in his head right now, and that he will know what college he'll attend. He's had a cursory look through Dr Wells' binder, all the folders for colleges and informational brochures on how to choose a major a bit daunting, but at least it's a step in the right direction. Once he's ready he'll talk to his parents, and Dr Wells again.

After the ceremony Iris runs straight into Eddie's arms.

In the distance, behind Iris and Eddie, he sees Ronnie hug his parents, and throw an arm around Caitlin.

"I really don't like that kid," Joe grumbles, patiently waiting for his only child to come over.

"He's harmless." He laughs, though that'll hardly convince Joe to cut Eddie some slack. It's a paternal instinct, he figures, the same way his mom would be protective of him, the way Iris has been protective of him, and there's nothing he can do or say to change Joe's mind. "At least he's not Jonas."

"Jonas Johansson." Joe giggles, shaking his head. "Whatever happened to him?"

He grimaces. Maybe Jonas wasn't the best example; Iris and Jonas dated for a few months their sophomore year, or rather, they fought and made up for a few months their sophomore year. He never understood what Iris saw in him, and she'd be hard-pressed to find a reason herself now. "He got a girl pregnant. Lives out in Keystone now."

"Some other poor sucker's nightmare, I guess."

Iris makes it over to them and hugs them both tight, chattering a million miles an hour about her cap and gown and how hot the fabric is, how she needs to take it off because she didn't buy the dress underneath for padding, and how grateful she's been for every single moment of high school—if he didn't know better he'd say she's drunk, but it doesn't take much for Iris to get drunk on life, to become intoxicated by the small precious moments that bring her family together, Eddie included.

His parents, who sat somewhere higher up the bleachers in the unreserved section, make it down to congratulate Iris too. While they talk—old memories of Iris in diapers being dredged up from the depths—his eyes wander over to Caitlin, who's on her own, Ronnie's parents talking to some other people. She seems small and not at all at ease, mangling her lower lip between her teeth, arms crossed over her chest, eyes scanning the crowd aimlessly.

He walks over without a second thought. "Hey."

Caitlin smiles, a darker mood momentarily fleeing the scene. "You a proud younger brother today?"

"Yeah." He laughs. "I guess you could say that."

For some reason he can't bring himself to ask about Ronnie, because Caitlin's disquiet returns in the silence that settles between them—she must be proud of Ronnie, of what he's accomplished, but right then she reminds him of Hartley, and how at odds he can be with his environment.

"You okay?"

Caitlin's eyes shoot up, lip slipping from between her teeth and it's like she's a small deer caught in headlights, primed to run. "Why would you ask—that?"

"You're doing that biting your lower lip thing you do when something's bothering you."

He shows some of his cards, hoping it might convince her to open up.

"I'm fine." Caitlin shrugs, short and concise in the small space she's allocated for her emotions, but she's not fine, and she's not fooling him. She's watching Ronnie graduate, the boy who's been there these past two years to hold her, to catch her, to see her through her pain. A boy who's leaving for college after the summer. Were they preparing to have The Talk? Will they spend their summer going back and forth on their decision? Might he see Ronnie visit regularly come the new school year?

Nothing but questions.

"What are your plans for the summer?" Caitlin asks, switching gears before he gets the chance to pry anything more out of her—if she doesn't want to talk he won't make her, but he wishes she knew she could. Bottling up feelings is never a good idea.

"My parents are taking me to Europe."

Caitlin's eyes go wider than he's ever seen them go, and she rises on her toes, just a tiny bit. "Europe?"

"My mom travelled a lot after she graduated college," he says. "She always meant to return, but things got in the way. She wants to give me the same experience."

"Could you—" Caitlin sways closer, as if their bodies are magnets and he's her opposite pole.

Could he what? Could he email? Could he send her pictures? Of course he could. He'd do that in a heartbeat. But Caitlin shakes her head, brushing her hair back behind her ears.

"No. Never mind." Her nose scrunches. "You'll show me pictures? After the summer?"

"Of course."

He can't tell. He can't read this about her. What's holding her back?

"What about you?"

"I'm not sure yet," Caitlin says. "Charlie's excited to have me all to himself. Dad and I are taking him on his first camping trip."

"You—camp?" he asks, before he's well and good decided it doesn't come across as insulting. Caitlin doesn't strike him as the kind of girl to rough it in the wild, or particularly like the outdoors—all he's ever heard her talk about encompassed state-of-the-art laboratories and cleanrooms, not pitching tents in the middle of the woods and making s'mores.

"There's no need to be rude about it." Caitlin laughs, and covers a hand over her face.

He's never seen her act embarrassed.

"I don't really," she admits. "But I don't want to miss out."

He wonders if Caitlin's love for Charlie is in any way comparable to his love for Iris.

"Barry, get in here!" Iris calls, as if she heard him think her name. He turns to see an unassuming stranger has a picture lined up, and he wouldn't miss out on it for the world.

Though, for Caitlin? Maybe.

Looking back at Caitlin she's somewhat relaxed; her eyes found Ronnie in the crowd. He imagines they have plans tonight, with or without his parents, with or without The Talk. At least they'll have the summer to weigh the pros and cons of a long-distance relationship, night after night to wonder if they're in love enough, or if breaking up would be better in the long run. Whatever the outcome, he hopes Caitlin puts her happiness first.

He beams at her. "Have a great summer, Caitlin."

He's rewarded with a small but genuine smile, one final remnant of his junior year.

"You too, Barry."

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	7. Chapter 7

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 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter seven

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.

Summer moves along swiftly, caught in the waves of new and exciting adventures, a sudden freedom afforded, no real responsibilities beyond those self-imposed.

Two months go by unencumbered, spent only in the company of his parents, a few local trips out on his own, and it's good for him. Paris' cobbled streets take his mind off the tiled floors at school and the way Caitlin's flats would tap along them; the markets at Camden Lock in London transform the hallways of Carmichael High into a dance of tourists and stallholders; the slam of lockers left and right replaced by the bustling sounds of Rome—the Capitoline Hill, the Forum Romanum, Piazza San Pietro. He's never seen so much culture or so much history together in any given place, or so much stretched over such a distance. Europe is everything his mom made it out to be: new and old at the same time, nothing like home at all.

He wishes Felicity were with him, even though the history of the cities wouldn't interest her nearly as much as finding out where all the decent Wi-Fi hotspots are located. Still, his love for his parents notwithstanding, it would've been nice to share this with someone his own age. Sometimes—rarely, since he's tried to push her from his mind—he imagines what it would be like to explore Europe with Caitlin by his side; the canals in Amsterdam, Berlin and its museums, Madrid and its art. Europe has something to see and marvel at no matter where he looks, at every turn, and it makes forgetting his life in Central City for a while that much easier.

College, however, has been a topic of much discussion between him and his parents. After reading through Dr Wells' entire binder he shared his concerns with them, his fears and doubts, and hearing their reactions he should have done so much sooner. His dad assured him he never meant to pressure him into getting a medical degree, and his mom ran her hand through his hair in that way she had and told him he could do anything he put his mind to.

So he told them he'd chase his love for chemistry wherever it would take him, whether it be Forensic or Environmental Chemistry or Biochemistry—no one ever decided on a major until the end of freshman year, he'd learned—and he had his parents' full support. He'd scored a perfect five on his AP Chemistry exam so he felt certain it was the right choice for him.

Then came the realization he was behind on a lot of college-related things, like the SATs and conversations with the guidance counselor, which teachers to ask for a letter of recommendation, and writing essays to go with his admissions. He knew all about reach schools and possibles, probable and safety schools, but he had yet to choose any of them. His mom had sat him down one smoldering hot afternoon in Spain, and ran through all the steps with him. They drafted a plan and a list and researched what schools might offer him the best opportunities. Ironically, MIT ended up on that list too, raising too many questions; what if he'd figured all this out with Felicity last summer instead of drowning in her eyes? Would they have broken up at all?

Those questions faded along the curves of the Seine, wound up the steps to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, which he'd never walk again in his life if it were up to him.

He won't go into his senior year the same way he did his junior year; last summer was all about Felicity and their relationship, about the stark realization that long-distance wouldn't be their thing no matter how much they loved each other or how hard they tried. Breaking up had made sense, yet his heart got broken all the same. Junior year started out lonely despite the friends surrounding him. It'd been hard facing the first few months without his girlfriend, without her jokes or her smile, or her hand in his.

Eventually, like dawn chasing the dew, the pain had subsided; he'd found himself again, and junior year had meandered along the safe notion that being single wouldn't be a bad thing. Or so he thought, because somewhere along the way, quite unconsciously, he'd burrowed within the safe bounds of his latent crush on Caitlin, rekindled in the wake of his break-up. Inadvertent. Unexpected. Even if it turned out to be some foolish way of saving himself future heartbreak he could live with that—Caitlin would never see him that way and in the meantime he could focus on school.

That reasoning had clearly come back to haunt him.

Who could've known a year ago that their relationship would change so drastically? Who would've guessed Caitlin would see him—had always seen him, really—and considered him her friend all along? Junior year had bookended quite differently than he expected; his crush soared to unseen heights, new friends, bigger possibilities, and fears he'd since faced. Despite having his parents as his sole companions summer hadn't been lonely, it hadn't been rife with indecision, and it hadn't left him desperately longing for a girl with a boyfriend. He'd put that all out of his mind.

Senior year would be different.

.

.

Yet, come September, summer still desperately clinging to the few weeks it has left, those good intentions go out the door. It happens quite unassuming—he's running late without Iris' punctuality urging him on and he's somewhat out of breath by the time he arrives at school.

The moment he lays eyes on Caitlin his lungs open up to a realm of opportunities, a multiverse of possible outcomes and he's done for. Her flats tap along the tiled floors and she glides like light itself, though never quite so whimsical. She's the picture perfect schoolgirl; books held to her waist, backpack hung from one shoulder. Her hair has been sun-kissed a tint lighter, falling down in long beach waves, and she wears a yellow dress captioning everything summer represented—freedom and fun and weightlessness.

He's absolutely done for.

"Barry!" she calls, beaming from ear to ear as she skips over to him, even though she'd been waiting outside of the classroom. Waiting for him?

"Cait"—a laugh pops in his chest like a cork out of a bottle, as if a stowaway these past two months that could only be coaxed out by Caitlin's radiant smile—"hey."

"How was your summer?"

Her eyes sparkle with stolen sunlight, one of her hands reaches for his arm and squeezes, and it may as well have been his heart, it may as well have been his self-control. Just like that he's back in Caitlin's orbit, burning along the outlines due to atmospheric entry, hurtling down at hypersonic speeds.

Senior year or not, he's still hopelessly smitten.

"You _have_ to tell me about Europe."

"Uh"—he blinks—"yeah."

"How about at lunch?"

"S-sure. Yeah," he stutters.

Why though? They've never had lunch together—that remained reserved for Ronnie, for Caitlin's other circle of friends far across the cafeteria, and not all of them graduated. Why would she want to spend more time with him? Who is this girl and what happened to Caitlin Snow, his competition, the fantasy, the girl on the pedestal he should stop referring to by her full name? They had classes together, they studied together, and they were definitely friends, but they've still not hung out outside of that, save the few times Caitlin showed up at his house unannounced. Save that one night with Felicity and Iris.

He wouldn't know how to act. Or talk. Or eat, in front of her.

"Are you ready?" Caitlin sneaks a step back, motioning towards the classroom.

Right. AP Physics. Did the bell ring?

"Yeah," he mutters, mostly to himself now, and quickly follows behind.

Note to Barry Allen: relocate vocal cords.

Entering the classroom he watches Caitlin conquer a spot in the second row, alongside the only other available seat: right next to her. He hides a smile in the palm of his hand. Of course. Where else would he sit?

"Why break up a winning combination?" Dr Wells speaks in rhythm with his thoughts, and he turns in time to see his favorite teacher wheel towards his desk. It's hard to believe this is the last year he'll take any of his classes. What kind of teachers would await him at college?

"Good morning, Dr Wells."

"Have a seat, Mr. Allen."

He makes his way over to his seat, the high chair pulled noticeably closer to Caitlin than before, and sits down. He must be losing his mind; he's starting to hallucinate and reading far too much into things. Caitlin can't be sending him any signals, can she? After everything that's happened between them, would he even be able to properly decipher them?

"Ready to have your cute butt handed to you this year, Allen?" Caitlin taunts, making sure he's the only one who can hear—what might people think if they heard her talk like that?

A breath stutters out of him. No, he sees no point in wanting to beat Caitlin to the highest grade, but he absolutely needs her to keep joking around like this—it might add to his confusion, it might hit him like a brick every single time, but he enjoys it far too much.

"Like last year, you mean?"

"All is fair..." Caitlin beams, her eyes skipping down to a new empty notebook.

He swallows hard, too afraid to add— _in love and war_?

No. Caitlin can't be flirting.

"Good morning, seniors," Dr Wells says, hoping to catch everyone's attention and quiet the room. "And welcome to AP Physics."

He waits for Cisco's or Hartley's inevitable ' _Those who are about to die_...' before his eyes fall to his two friends in the front row... only to find Hartley sitting next to Patty.

What—?

He scans the room, recalling how they all decided to take Physics together this year, and finds Cisco in the back, next to another student whose name he can't currently recall. Why would Dr Wells not partner them? Cisco and Hartley were a winning combination as much as he and Caitlin were.

"Why aren't Cisco and Hartley sitting together?" Caitlin asks, followed by the faint whiff of her perfume, one he hasn't yet identified, betraying how close she sits. Right now all he can think about is his two friends and how he hasn't properly talked to them all summer. Cisco's twitter feed had come to life with movie and Netflix reviews, new articles and the occasional status update on his life, but nothing to indicate anything disastrous happened to his relationship.

"I have no idea," he openly admits. He's at a loss. He has no idea what his friends have been doing this summer. If something happened he hadn't been there for either of them.

He and Caitlin exchange a worried glance.

Cisco remains focused on his books all through class and Hartley sits still as a statue, never glancing back at Cisco, and it leaves him with a growing sense of dread and guilt. He might never have understood how they worked, but anyone who knew them could see how much they cared about each other. He thought what Cisco and Hartley had would prove unbreakable, and now it seemed something might've come between them. He hadn't once emailed to ask how either of them was doing; Cisco said they would spend as much of their summer together as possible—Hartley's parents took long vacations so they had more space than they needed.

What had that summer full of promise turned into?

After class he approaches Hartley at Caitlin's urging, even though he'd be far more comfortable talking to Cisco—Hartley scares him like this; shoulders hunched as if he's expecting someone to attack.

"Hey, Hartley." He licks his lips, unsure about how to proceed. "Did something happen between you and Cisco?"

Hartley's eyes darken. He has a good few inches on Hartley but he's never felt quite so tall in his presence; Hartley usually demanded space the same way he commanded respect, but now he's small, fragile, somewhat fidgety. "Mind your own business, Allen," he bites, and returns his attention to his locker. No insult. No _Bartholomew._ Something must be wrong.

He should talk to Cisco. As soon as possible.

"And?" Caitlin sidles to his side in the hallway, as if she'd been there all along, lying in wait, a small devil on his shoulder. "Did he say anything?"

"Uh, no," he says, still taken a bit left field by Caitlin's enthusiasm. He's seen her excited over school and classes and science experiments, but she's alight with a lively energy he's never credited her with. It stands to reason that she cares about Cisco and Hartley, but still— "He blew me off."

Caitlin purses her lips, the way detectives on television do when they're about to have an idea that might lead to a break in the case. _It's adorable_. "I'll get to the bottom of this," she says and rushes past him, but not before turning on her heels and calling, "See you at lunch," and continuing on her way, like a small twister about to wreak havoc, a whirlwind spitfire.

Something's changed for her and he can't figure out what it is. He flashes back to his junior year without Felicity, the loneliness and heartache that ruled the first few months. Is that what this is? Did Caitlin miss Ronnie so much she now clung to him for support? He recalls Ronnie's words to him, _You'll look out for her after I'm gone_ , and he thinks, yes, he'll keep that promise, no matter what it takes.

But he's not sure being a stand-in for Ronnie sits particularly right with him.

"Hey, Allen!"

He hangs his head. Why, oh why, couldn't Tony have graduated before the summer too? He'd stepped up his game; he'd stopped putting off all this college stuff and he'd tried to forget about his feelings for Caitlin as best he could. He might not have been successful in every aspect, but why couldn't the universe have granted him this one thing?

"What, Tony?" He turns around, a bit bolder than he might've been last year. He's a senior now; he's fed up with being treated like a ragdoll.

Tony runs into him—their shoulders knock together, but him being twice as small he staggers a few steps back.

"You watch yourself," Tony sneers. "Ronnie might not be here but I got my eye on you."

He bites the inside of his cheek, balling his hands into fists. He won't give Tony the satisfaction of seeing him angry, of starting a fight simply because Tony reads as much into Caitlin's behavior as Hartley and Iris had before the summer. Tony doesn't own Caitlin and neither does Ronnie. Neither does he or anyone else. She makes her own choices, and if she needs him a little closer for a few weeks, if she continues to demand a certain level of physicality and joke around, he'll be there for her. Caitlin's the only one who knows what she needs.

Ronnie Raymond. So far away and still in the picture. He never expected the universe to grant him that particular absence.

.

.

Contrary to what Caitlin said he sees her in Calculus BC next, though they sit on opposite ends of the room—he's running late, so late, without Iris there—and then again in English Literature, Mr Hewitt spending forty-five minutes going over the year's reading schedule. He wonders if Caitlin will mention Ronnie at lunch, if she'll tell him anything at all about her summer and all the adventures Ronnie took her on, even though he'd prefer to be spared the details. But he's her friend now; he won't discourage her from talking about anything she needs to get off her chest.

He catches Caitlin talking to Cisco outside in the hallway between classes, and she seems to be having more luck than he had with Hartley. He hadn't expected Hartley to tell him anything; he liked his private life to remain private, but if Cisco talked they might be able to get to the bottom of this. Though God knows what they'd do with the information. If Hartley and Cisco had a fight they might simply need time to figure some things out, and if they broke up they must've had a reason and it's none of their business to meddle. He doubts the latter is the case though—they've both been on the receiving end of each other's so-called 'time outs' before.

"Cisco and Hartley broke up."

Caitlin falls into a chair opposite him at the table in the cafeteria, one far from her cheerleading and football-playing friends.

"What?" he asks, left dizzy in the wake of Caitlin's swift disproval of his assumption; he can't believe something so terrible happened that Cisco and Hartley broke up—maybe they needed time, maybe they needed some space, because surely this can't be permanent. "Why?"

"I'm not sure," Caitlin says, a small frown knitting between her eyebrows. "But they had a huge fight."

A huge fight could mean anything; Hartley could've insulted one of Cisco's favorite movie franchises or Cisco could've caught Hartley in a bad mood—they didn't have huge fights that led to break-ups. Cisco and Hartley were two peas in a pod, and though they made an odd combination they worked, the same way his mom's hurriedness combined with his dad's forgetful nature, the way Caitlin's—

Yeah, no, he's not about to parallel that with Caitlin and Ronnie.

Maybe some would say Ronnie thawed out some of Caitlin's misperceived coldness, but he'd never think her cold in the first place. Cisco and Hartley worked, they made sense, and maybe he hadn't given them enough credit. Despite Hartley's conservative parents and their family pride, despite Cisco's traditional upbringing, they'd defied everything and made it work. They made each other happy. So what changed to destroy all that?

"We should help them," Caitlin says.

He frowns. It's not their place to come between this—he'd be happy to talk to Cisco and suss out what went down, maybe help him figure some things out, but he wouldn't know what to say to Hartley.

"Remind them why they fell in love in the first place."

His eyes narrow on Caitlin's face, on the triumphant little smile pulling at her lips, the determined set in her brow; any moment now he'll be asked to do something he might end up regretting.

And then Caitlin smiles. Oh, she's up to no good. And he's certain to get roped into it.

"Tell me about your summer," Caitlin says, unearthing a salad from her backpack—she must've prepared it at home to bring to school; was there anything she couldn't do? She cooks, she helps raise her brother, she keeps up her grades, and she has a boyfriend—maybe she has superpowers.

For the next forty minutes he does all the talking. He tries to describe all the wonders he saw in Europe as best he can, but mostly ends up showing Caitlin a lot of pictures on his phone. Somewhere within that allotted time her hand lands on his wrist, while he flips through over two hundred pictures of buildings and churches, museums and statues and paintings, and he can't see anyone but Caitlin; her eyes, her smile, her mouth moving excitedly around dozens of questions and her laugh, oh God, her laughter—if she means to make him fall in love she doesn't have to try.

He's already there.

"Library later?" he asks, as they both get up to head to their next class; Computer Science for him, US History for her, and then Phys Ed.

"Sure." Caitlin nods. "See you then."

 _Breathe, Allen_ , he reminds himself, but it drags no more oxygen into his lungs than all his previous attempts—Caitlin's touch remains imprinted along his wrist, warmth spreading up from the palm of his hand to the tips of his fingers, and it's only the thought of Ronnie that chases it away. He can't get caught in this crush any more than he had last year; it would be easy to fall headfirst into every aspect of his friendship with Caitlin, to drown in the comfort of her company, get lost in her smiles and unexpected touches. All that would be so much easier without Ronnie nearby, but Ronnie's still an important factor in her life. He can't disrespect that. He can't ever forget that Caitlin's still someone else's girlfriend.

Cisco drops into a chair next to him. "You guys make me sick."

He should get going if he doesn't want to be late, but he's let Cisco down enough these past two months.

"All that love in the air."

"Hey, bud," he says, before his mind reels around the same old implication. This first day has hit him with such a whiplash he's flashing back to last year, when he couldn't help but wonder: _Love_? _He and Caitlin_? But no, _no_ , he can't get lost in that line of thinking again. "How're you holding up?"

"Oh, I'm fine." Cisco huffs; there are dark circles around his eyes, same as Hartley. It's hard to see one of his best friends like this. "My heart's in pieces and I haven't slept in three weeks, but here you are, getting chummy with Caitlin Snow again. Didn't we agree that would be a mistake?"

He fails to see how one logically connects to the other, but Cisco's clearly sleep deprived, so he'll let him have this one. "We're just friends, Cisco."

"Must be great." Cisco stares blankly ahead. "Staying friends."

"You and Hartley could—" he starts, but even as he's saying it he knows they couldn't—Cisco and Hartley skipped the friends part.

Cisco shakes his head, and he wishes he had anything better to say than _keep your chin up_.

"We were never friends, Barry."

How does that work, though? He saw it in movies and on television, people meeting briefly before rushing into a date, sharing a kiss and a bed—did that happen to people their age? If it'd been him and Felicity that would've ended in downright disaster, limbs ending up in the wrong places, if they'd managed not to accidentally insult each other to begin with.

"We were enemies," Cisco muses. "We were lovers."

 _Boyfriends_ , he corrects in thought, if only to avoid any too specific mental images.

"And now we're—nothing." Cisco shrugs. "Nothing, Bartholomew."

"I'm really sorry, Cisco," he says, forgiving him for using his full name—it's oddly reassuring, to hear Cisco use his name the way Hartley would. They obviously have a lot to work out, together and separated. Breakups are never easy, no matter the circumstances; you either push someone away or let go of a person who'd meant a great deal, who'd been a part of your life for however long. He and Felicity made a mutual decision and it still left him heartbroken. He can't imagine what Cisco and Hartley must be going through.

.

.

He ends up late for both Computer Science class and Phys Ed; Coach Garrick makes him run two extra laps, and he's properly sore by the time he makes it to the library—maybe he should consider adding some functional strength training to his daily routine, get himself some semblance of abs and muscle tone. Coordination in his limbs might help too, with the whole sprinting from one class to the other.

Caitlin rushes into the library on the tips of her toes, bouncing small steps towards him before she drops her books onto the table and shimmies into a chair. "I have an idea."

He expected nothing less.

"We're going to pretend to go on a date."

His jaw drops, and his eyes widen, and his heart hurtles down to his stomach. Caitlin causes such a whiplash his question comes out, "Wh–at?" because how did she jump from helping Cisco and Hartley to pretending to go out with him? Why would she go out with him? Why would she pretend? How do Cisco and Hartley factor into any of that?

"Think about it," Caitlin says, but he has, and he can't track her train of thought to any sort of logical conclusion. "You tell Cisco you asked me out, but you need a wingman. I'll do the same with Hartley."

Okay. Cisco. Wingman. He still doesn't see why there has to be any sort of pretend-date involved. Can't they ask Hartley and Cisco to meet up with them? Study with them like old times? Of course, if the break-up went that bad they might not want to see each other at all. Even if they pretended to go out on a date Cisco might not be up for being his wingman. Would they fall for that? Would either of his friends believe he asked out _Caitlin Snow_?

He can't even believe it. _And they're just pretending_.

"They won't go for that."

"We're not telling them what we're doing." Caitlin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed by his lack of enthusiasm. "Tell Cisco I'm bringing Patty."

He grimaces. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"They haven't talked, Barry," Caitlin says, while her eyes beg him to listen. "They had a fight and went their own way."

He gets her point, he sees part of her reasoning spelled out across his past with Felicity in crystal clear outlines, but that still doesn't mean they should get involved. Hartley and Cisco should talk, in time, when they've both cooled down and can talk rather than shout at each other. Had Caitlin honestly spent the past two hours coming up with a plan to get them in the same room together? What sparked this crying concern for them?

"At the very least we should get them to clear the air," Caitlin says. "We'll be there to make sure things don't get out of hand."

Could he go behind one of his best friend's backs and lie to him? Neither of them have any idea what caused the breakup; either of their friends could have done something unforgivable and putting them across from each other could undo whatever bit of healing the past few weeks had managed.

Then again, Cisco hadn't slept. That's not healthy either.

"Are you worried they won't talk?" Caitlin asks once his silence stretches too long. "Or that my plan isn't good enough?"

He doesn't miss the clear challenge in at least one of those questions—he worries Caitlin gave this far more thought than she should have. Surely there were other ways of tricking Hartley and Cisco into the same room. "I'm worried I'm going to be the one who ends up getting murdered."

Caitlin eyes narrow. "By who?"

He laughs. He's never consciously thought about which of his two friends would be most capable or likely of murder, but now that Caitlin asks it could be either. "Take your pick."

Once Cisco or Hartley find out what they've done, they might never forgive them.

"So you don't want to go out with me?"

His face falls, overwhelmed by the sudden question, one laced with an equally dangerous challenge; she's being coy now and that's playing with matches. "That's—" He shakes his head, "not..."

Of course he'd go out with her, were she single and available, or—hang on.

"No!"

He can't ask her out, he couldn't, even with Ronnie out of the picture. How would he ever find the right words? Where would he find the courage even, to ask out a girl he's had a crush on for almost two years?

Wait. Did he say that out loud?

"Yes!" he rushes, "I do."

 _Oh God_. Does he? He's blurted out so many unrelated words now he can't remember what he meant to say. Cisco and Hartley will kill them, or if not Caitlin he'll meet the short end of that stick, but maybe they should try. He can't stand the idea that he hadn't been there for Cisco or Hartley all summer and the thought of doing nothing now would make him damn near neglectful. This is what friends do, right? Pretend to go out on a date with someone all in an elaborate attempt of getting two other people in the same room?

"All—you know," he says. "In the spirit of helping out a friend."

Caitlin smiles, and he swallows hard. Tony's voice rings violently in his ears: _Ronnie might not be here but I got my eye on you_. Pretend or not, people might see them out together. Pretend or not, people might talk.

Has he considered all the possible consequences of what he just agreed to?

.

.

Turns out pretend-dating gives him about as much anxiety as real dating does, even without the added worry that come Monday Tony will find him and beat the living daylights out of him for deigning to be worthy of Caitlin.

He keeps it simple: a shirt, a cardigan, jeans—it's not what he would wear on a real first date, he reckons, but he can't give Caitlin the impression that he's been planning this out in detail in his head for years. It's a fantasy. But it's pretty damn detailed.

It shouldn't come as that much of a shock then that Cisco's first words to him are, "No flowers, dude?"

"Huh?" he exclaims, and stares down at his empty hands, dumbfounded. _It's pretend_ , he nearly confesses, but stops in time: Caitlin might never forgive him for ruining her perfect plan, or worse, _kill him_ , and he'd rather avoid death at the hands of his high school crush.

"I always figured when this day came you'd, I don't know"—Cisco shrugs—"hulk out into the Super Romancer."

His eyes go wide. Cisco has an odd image of him. If this were a real date it's not how he would do it: he wouldn't consider a wingman, even though he'd double dated with Cisco and Hartley when he was still with Felicity, but he likes to think he could somewhat stand his own. _Somewhat_. And yes, he'd probably buy flowers should the occasion call for it and he's the person who buys big red cards and chocolates for Valentine's and several small presents for his girlfriend's birthday, but the fact of the matter is _they're pretending_.

What's worse is he's setting up one of his best friends to come face to face with his ex-boyfriend and neither he nor Caitlin has any idea which one of them did the breaking.

This could end in disaster.

He drives them to a small diner Caitlin picked out, where they'd have enough privacy to talk amongst themselves, but could fool Hartley and Cisco into thinking they'd go. Caitlin should already be there.

He can't stop fidgeting. He can't throw Cisco to the wolves like this, he can't let his best friend walk in there and—

Maybe somewhere along the past few days he'd decided Hartley was the one who broke Cisco's heart and Cisco wasn't to blame. He'd much rather keep Cisco safe from this.

"It's cool if you don't want to do this," he says, coming to a halt right outside the diner. "I don't—"

Cisco waves a hand the same way Obi-Wan Kenobi did at those storm troopers in _A New Hope_. For a moment or two he thinks Cisco might actually quote ' _These are not the droids you're looking for_ ', but he ends up adding to his nerves instead.

"We're bros," Cisco says. "I got your back, man."

But he doesn't have Cisco's, does he? They wouldn't be here if he did.

They push through the doors of the diner, and his eyes fall to Caitlin immediately, snug in a corner booth opposite Hartley.

Moment of truth.

Cisco's going to kill him.

"I'm just glad you didn't ask Hartley."

He frowns and wonders exactly what world Cisco envisions where he would chose Hartley Rathaway as a wingman, but that confusion subsides as they push deeper into the diner, and Cisco notices Caitlin sitting with Hartley.

"Hold up." Cisco stops in his tracks. "What's going on? What's he doing here?"

"Cisco—"

Realization dawns in Cisco's eyes. "Hell to the nah, Bartholomew."

Cisco backs off a step.

He knew this wouldn't work, he knew they'd never willingly or unwittingly sit down together— _they're not friends_.

"You set me up?"

Before he gets the chance to apologize Caitlin rushes past him, flashes behind Cisco and starts pushing him towards the table, taking charge of the situation. Caitlin's determination knows no bounds.

"Sit down, Francisco," Caitlin orders, but Cisco crosses his arms over his chest and takes a good few moments to stare down at Hartley.

Oddly enough, Hartley sits still in his seat and stares down at the table, unmoving. He's never seen Hartley like this, and it makes it infinitely harder for him to work out which one of them hurt the other. Hartley had been defensive at school, while Cisco opened up to him and Caitlin. Now Cisco was on the defense and Hartley sat meek as a lamb.

Maybe they hurt each other.

He slides in next to Caitlin, and after another few moments, Cisco sits down next to Hartley. They both shift to face away from each other, but at least they're both sitting. Neither of them is shouting. Not yet, anyway.

"Now"—Caitlin folds her hands together on top of the table—"we all know why we're here."

Cisco throws him a long lingering glare that travels down to his bones; he hasn't heard the end of this. What if this doesn't work? Has he sacrificed his friendship with Cisco to Caitlin's sneaky plan?

"We're not asking you guys to make up." Caitlin looks at Hartley, then at Cisco, and back at Hartley. "But you need to talk about what happened."

Hartley shrinks smaller in his seat.

Cisco juts out his chin.

Neither of them speaks.

"What did happen?" he asks carefully.

Past time outs had concerned small things, like Hartley insulting Superman or Cisco poking fun at Hartley's obsession with Japanese anime, but they never lasted long. It's not even like they avoided each other during those time outs; they got a little passive aggressive around each other for a day or two, shot each other dark glances, but they still went out, Hartley still ended up at the Ramons dinner table. The time outs were never as permanent as a breakup.

"Did you—" Caitlin's eyes widen, her lips pursing, and he comes dangerously close to thinking her adorable again, "—disagree on something?"

Cisco snorts.

But silence soon returns.

"Guys, come on," he says. It seems too futile to insist; they're both too stubborn to realize this might be exactly what they need, that clearing the air could pave the way towards friendship or reconciliation, whatever they decide on. But not talking won't get them anywhere. "You sat down. Clearly you have something to say to each other."

"Marvel's better, my ass," Cisco mutters under his breath.

He blinks.

"Marvel has consistently shown a much greater care for civilian life," Hartley replies, and starts biting at his thumb's nail. "Whereas DC focuses on the main characters without considering any humane elements."

 _What_?

Caitlin leans in sideways. "What's happening?" she asks, eyes locked on Cisco and Hartley, but he couldn't answer if he tried. Did his two friends have a fight about which comic book universe was better? Did they honestly break up arguing the intricacies of the Marvel and DC movie universe? When did Hartley take the time to learn about either?

"DC characters carry the weight of the world, Rathaway," Cisco sneers.

"Every superhero does, Ramon," Hartley fires back. "But you don't see Iron Man singlehandedly level an entire city."

Cisco huffs. "I guess Johannesburg wasn't a city, then."

"That was Scarlet Witch's doing."

"Because Zod had nothing to do with leveling Metropolis or Smallville."

"They can both fly and run at superhuman speeds, Cisco. It could've been avoided."

"I'm not doing this with you again!" Cisco lashes out and tenses where he sits, refusing to turn around to face Hartley.

This isn't going at all the way he hoped it would; he thought being in the same room would make them see they can't be without each other, that all the fighting and arguments aren't worth it when they're in love and defying their parents at every turn.

He hoped they'd walk out of here as boyfriends. Was that naïve?

"And yet here we are..." Hartley says.

"You can be such a dick sometimes."

"You know I don't like—"

"You're a dick, Hartley. I'm sorry I tried to change that."

"Change—?"

"We're done talking."

"No," Caitlin says faintly, "Guys—"

"I told my parents!" Hartley shouts all of a sudden, his voice reverberating through the entire restaurant, which falls completely silent in the wake of Hartley's confession.

Caitlin's hand shoots out underneath the table and grabs around his wrist.

The weight of Hartley's words presses down on all four of them. Hartley told his parents? He came out to two of the most outspoken Republicans in Central City? He doesn't know what it's like for Hartley, he couldn't even come close to knowing what it's like for Cisco, and coming out to parents as conservative as the Rathaways—he can't wrap his head around that.

Cisco seems equally stumped. "What?" he asks softly, his body making a half turn towards Hartley.

Now they're getting somewhere, even though it's terrible to consider what might've caused the rift between them. Had Hartley's parents made him do this?

Hartley sighs, eyes fixed on the table. "I told my parents—about us."

"Why would you do that?!" Cisco shouts. "Are you insane? You told me they'd disown you—"

" _Cisco_ ," Caitlin snaps, before he gets the chance to kick at Cisco's shin.

Caitlin's fingers remain curled around his wrist, squeezing every few moments like they're watching a dramatic plot unfolding on a movie screen. He, in turn, starts to feel like they shouldn't be privy to such a private conversation. This isn't any of their business; this is something Hartley and Cisco have to work out between themselves.

Cisco crosses his arms over his chest, clearly not entirely ready to let this argument go. "What did they say?"

"They didn't understand." Hartley faces away from all of them, shrinking another few inches where he sits, a small mess of a boy biting at his nails.

He hadn't recognized it before, but Hartley's hopelessly lost.

"They threatened to take me out of school if I didn't stop seeing you."

"So you picked a fight?"

"It was the only way I could—"

"You could've talked to me."

Hartley falls silent.

"We can still—" Cisco breathes, searching for the right words. "They don't need to know, do they?"

"You're not angry?" Hartley turns his head, his eyes raking over Cisco's face, and he feels Hartley's relief as his own. They have a lot to talk about, but they can work through this. He's certain of that.

"Of course, I'm angry," Cisco hisses. "You piss me off on a daily basis, but—I love you."

Hartley finally shifts in his seat, turning to face Cisco, hesitantly reaching down for his hands.

Caitlin's fingers cut off his hand's blood supply.

"Could you guys give us a minute?" Hartley asks without taking his eyes off Cisco.

"Yeah, sure," he agrees, and jumps up out of his seat, Caitlin's hand falling away. He can't believe Caitlin pulled this off, that she had a vision and saw it realized in a matter of days and now Cisco and Hartley are talking.

Caitlin makes no move to follow him.

"Caitlin," he calls.

It's tempting to stick around and watch the fruits of Caitlin's labor, but it isn't their place. Hartley and Cisco have a lot to talk about: their relationship, Hartley's parents, the fight. He and Caitlin don't factor into any of that.

Caitlin doesn't move.

" _Cait_ ," he tries again.

"I—" Caitlin looks up, looks at Cisco and Hartley and back up at him. Her mouth presses in a tight line. "Fine."

He smiles fondly, offering Caitlin a hand as she gets up. She's wearing skinny jeans and a big red sweater she nearly drowns in; the sleeves are too long, the collar wide and deep, but she looks like a hug personified, or a hot cup of coffee on a cold winter night.

"Do you think it'll work?" she whispers softly and bumps shoulders with him, like they're co-conspirators in an elaborate plot they've staked their reputations on. They made progress, their two friends are talking and while the Rathaways had demanded something terrible, while Hartley had probably followed his parents' wishes, he believes they can work it out.

"I think it might, yeah."

They make their way to a table for two and order some drinks; he somehow maneuvers Caitlin opposite him with her back turned to Cisco and Hartley, yet she bounces in her seat, excited and expectant. "I told you it would be a good idea." Caitlin's eyes shine bright, before a small pull at her sleeves makes the collar of her sweater slip off her shoulder.

His lips part.

"That you did." He clears his throat and averts his eyes. Not the time or the place to think about how soft Caitlin's skin might be. "Why, though? I know we're all friends, but you went all out."

"They're in love." Caitlin shrugs, and right then, between the quirk in the left corner of her mouth and the exposed line of her collarbone, he's never felt closer to her, he's never felt more drawn to her, like if he reached out a hand she'd reach back and they'd meet somewhere in the middle. His chest warms at the thought, of everything that's changed he doesn't even know about, of everything yet to come—Caitlin will be here for him.

"That's something worth fighting for," Caitlin says. "Don't you think?"

Yes, absolutely, there's nothing in this world worthier of a fight. Cisco and Hartley were in love, the way he and Felicity once were and even though their fight had ended, even though he and Felicity decided to go their own ways, that first love will mean something for as long as he lives. Felicity taught him how to love.

Ronnie must've done the same for Caitlin.

"Y-yeah," he stutters, and rubs at his neck. "You must—miss Ronnie."

He blinks.

Did he just willingly drag Ronnie into this conversation?

Caitlin's eyebrows rise.

"That wasn't—" He shakes his head, attempting to regain some semblance of logic, but he fears it may have skipped out the door right behind any common sense he had left. _You must miss Ronnie_? Even if he believed that to be true, even if Caitlin had talked about Ronnie at all this week, what's he thinking bringing it up now? Ronnie's gone, for the most part, and now he's going to conjure him back up?

He closes his eyes, stuttering, "I wasn't trying—" and, "to imply you—" and, "did this because—" and—

He releases a shuddering breath.

It's soothing how she lets him ramble.

"Ronnie and I broke up before the summer."

When his eyes open Caitlin isn't looking at him, instead she averts her gaze as if she's scared of how he might react; her lips pursed, fingers tapping around her cup of coffee nervously. What could he say to upset her? _Good for you_? He'd never do that.

Caitlin and Ronnie broke up.

Oh.

 _OH_.

Say something, Barry Allen. _Anything_.

"I'm—" He licks his lips, as if the tip of his tongue might catch the right thing to say. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Was that the change he'd tracked in her behavior all week? Not the loneliness of Ronnie being far away, but the heartache of a breakup, of Ronnie gone forever, or at least the immediate foreseeable future?

Caitlin looks at him from the corner of her eye, her shoulders relaxing once she decides she likes what she sees. Had someone else told her it was for the best? Had her father spouted another opinion on Ronnie Caitlin hadn't needed?

He isn't Ronnie's biggest fan, but he'd never rejoice over a breakup; he'd never tell her he's glad she's rid of him because now she can focus on the things that mattered. Breakups sucked, no matter who did the breaking.

"It's okay," Caitlin says. "We talked. It was for the best."

"Because of the distance?" he asks, because what other reason would they have? He hasn't heard one bad thing about Ronnie come out of Caitlin's mouth; being each other's opposites wasn't a bad thing, and despite all the bullying at school Ronnie never partook in any of that.

"Because we both want different things in the long run," Caitlin says, fully relaxed again, talking about her breakup like they were talking about any other mundane topic.

It'd been a little more than two months ago, and not everyone grieved the same way, but after hearing what Ronnie had come to mean to her he's surprised to see her okay.

"He wants to travel and see the world, and I—" Caitlin shrugs with one shoulder. "I don't even like camping."

He laughs.

No, that's right, Caitlin wants the laboratory and white lab coat with her name stitched on it; she wants the title and a chance to change the world; she wants to build things with her own two hands and make a difference.

He sort of wants that too.

"Really, Barry, I had a really great summer," Caitlin says, her insistence curling between her eyebrows in the most peculiar way. "I spent time with my dad and Charlie. I read a lot. I tried camping."

He smiles, but fails to picture it. He can't see her in the wild.

"I got a tan. I read comic books," Caitlin continues, and her eyes shine with the same world of possibility he sees every time he looks at her. "I saw movies I never thought I would. I convinced my dad to get Netflix. I visited Felicity in Starling. I worked on college essays."

His picture of Caitlin wouldn't be complete without some extracurricular schoolwork.

"I focused on 'me' for the first time in a long time."

And once he's blinked, once, twice, three times, Caitlin is a new girl, a different girl than the one he wished a good summer two months ago. She's the Caitlin he imagines she was before her mom died, bright with color on the inside too.

She's healing, and it's the most amazing thing he has ever had the privilege of seeing up close.

"And I'm okay."

All the work he's done these past two months hasn't meant a thing, because here he sits, opposite the girl in his dreams, and he's in awe of her, of her strength, of her kindness in spite of her pain, of everything she's accomplished and will accomplish carrying all this baggage.

"Okay," he breathes.

Caitlin beams and he's lost to that smile, so far gone he might as well prepare for atmospheric entry at Mach 5 or over. Because he's falling, he's fallen, and he falls a little harder every time she's near.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._

*opinions on Marvel and DC expressed in this chapter in no way, shape, or form reflect the author's haha


	8. Chapter 8

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter eight

.

.

Whatever remained of summer disappears in the week that follows, and autumn swiftly but surely lowers the temperatures to a comfortable sweater weather still lacking the cold bite of winter.

He's hardly talked to Cisco or Hartley all week, but he suspects that has a lot more to do with them catching up on the time they lost than any resentment they might feel towards him or Caitlin. He catches glances of them around school; tucked in a quiet corner as they talk, unable to hide how their eyes skip to each other's lips every few seconds; huddled close together over lunch, stealing food off each other's trays. Any fight between them seems to have resolved, because they laugh, and argue all the same, but they're as every bit in love as they were before—if not more.

And for some reason it nags at him.

If his junior year began with loneliness, his senior year has managed to make him envious. He wants what Cisco and Hartley have; he longs to have that kind of trust and intimacy with another person again and above all he wishes that person could be Caitlin. It's a less scary thought than it used to be, potentially confessing his feelings, or at the very least ask her out—but still significantly scary enough to keep him quiet.

There's a conflict warring inside him that's never been there before.

Maybe that's why he tells Iris everything that happened during their pretend-date in great detail, hoping his best friend might provide some insight.

Iris' jaw drops, clearly visible even over the webcam. "You pretended to go on a date with her?"

He grimaces. "In a nutshell, yeah."

It hadn't changed anything—come Monday he and Caitlin had gone right back to their is-this-flirting-or-teasing dynamic and remained the same kind of friendly they've always been. Yet he felt like he learned something few others had before him. Caitlin started healing. Caitlin started talking to him about healing. And if that wasn't the most remarkable thing to behold he can't guess what could be.

"And this was her idea?" Iris says, her face breaking into a wide smile.

"I—"

He draws in a sharp breath without it getting anywhere—it never quite reaches his lungs, the way it's prone to do whenever he thinks about Caitlin. There must have been other ways to get Hartley and Cisco in the same room. Why did it have to be a date? Why couldn't it have been a friendly dinner? He's certain in some alternate universe he would've panicked about that hard enough to need a wingman by his side.

"Yeah," he breathes, trying to push out some of his confusion, "I don't know what happened."

Iris leans closer to the screen, scrunching up her nose. "You're starting to see it, aren't you?"

He draws a hand over his face. He shouldn't see it, but Iris is right; he's starting to—the small touches, their rising proximity, the way Caitlin continually bumps their shoulders together, eye contact that lasts a little longer than it used to, and the teasing, God, the endless teasing. If Caitlin means to send him any signals they've thoroughly confused him and he's at a loss about what to do.

"Barry!" Iris calls, startling him. "She likes you! Ask her out!"

Is that the answer to all his problems? Should he ask Caitlin out?

What about Tony's watchful eyes?

Eddie appears behind Iris on his computer screen, and he vaguely wonders how often Iris calls him from Eddie's place—Iris shares a dorm room with one Linda Park, while Eddie rented a one-bedroom apartment near campus where Iris seemed to spend a lot of her time. They'd had The Talk over the summer and decided to give their relationship a chance. Eddie moved and enrolled in the Des Moines Police Academy while Iris started college. Living together was a decision they deemed too early to make, but the fact that they were so willing to try, so reluctant to give up on what they were building told him they'd go a long way.

They were in love, and that was a beautiful thing.

He misses his best friend more than words can express, but seeing her happy makes him want it all the more—to follow his dreams like Iris, like Felicity will, like Caitlin undoubtedly will by the end of this school year.

It's taken him a long time to realize, but there's absolutely no reason he can't have that as well.

"Hey, Barr," Eddie says, hovering at Iris' back.

"Hey, Eddie."

"Ask her out," Eddie says; he pinches at Iris' sides, making her shoot up in her chair, but Eddie's eyes pin him down. How often does Iris talk to Eddie about him? He and Eddie aren't close, or rather they're not close enough to talk about Iris behind her back in anything but loving terms; is this Eddie's opinion, another added to the huge pile of opinions he's quietly sifting through, or Iris's cleverly copied by a loving boyfriend?

Eddie kisses the top of Iris' head. "If only to get this one off your back."

He laughs, especially at how Iris slaps at Eddie's arm until he disappears off-screen, and he misses that—he misses _her_ , along with something far more distinct that sparks another touch of envy. He couldn't be happier Iris found someone like Eddie, or that Cisco and Hartley made up; and he's not lonely, not the way he was after his break-up with Felicity, but there is a longing for a deeper connection. A missing.

"You owe this to yourself, Barr," Iris says, her attention fully focused on him again, while her conviction sinks as surely into his skin as it already had in hers. "You don't want to spend the rest of your life wondering what could've happened if you'd just been a little braver."

He doesn't. He really doesn't. He can scarcely imagine what it'll be like going off to college and leaving this all behind—his home, his parents, his friends—and what about Caitlin? What about all these possibilities he envisions for them? What about the oxygen she steals every time she's near? He could continue to nourish this crush, play it close to his chest for the rest of the year, and after that he could let it fade, go off to college and forget Caitlin Snow, forget his heart ever beat for her, and find someone new.

Or he could become an actual active participant in his own life.

"Bravery, huh?" he asks, rubbing at his chin. Does he have that in him?

Iris smiles. "A bold suggestion, I know."

It's like Iris is there with him, doting out advice, helping where she can, pushing hard enough to get him out of his shell. Asking out girls is not one of his natural skills the way that chemistry and physics are; Felicity was the first girl he ever asked out and Iris had to literally _shove him her way_.

With Iris out of the picture there's no way he'll be borrowing any of her bravery again, that's for sure.

"I guarantee you'll miss out on something amazing if you don't try," Iris says.

He nods, "Yeah," because he will miss out, he'll do himself a disservice locking it up until it starts eating him up.

But what if Caitlin says no? He may see worlds where they work out, but that doesn't mean she does. What if they can't go back to being friends after she rejects him? What if everything he's felt for so long won't be reciprocated and he'll spend his senior nursing another heartbreak?

Then again, what if Caitlin says yes?

.

.

" _Yes_ ," Caitlin whispers under her breath, and quickly writes down the rest of an undoubtedly well-crafted sentence in her notebook, accentuating it with a dot at the end, pressed hard into the paper.

"It's not a competition, Dr Snow," he says, bemused by Caitlin's competitiveness whenever it pops up.

They've divided their Physics assignment between the two of them—Caitlin's in charge of the writing until it's ready for his scrutiny, and he's charged with drawing up diagrams and the specifics of each experiment conducted in class. They'll switch papers once finished to look over each other's work. It's an efficiency that had lacked in his schoolwork until he met Caitlin a few years ago, but has since become routine.

Caitlin blushes a smile, but scribbles on enthusiastically.

He can't help but look at her, all her hair swept sideways over one shoulder, casting half her face in shadow; a picture of calm, of focus she steals from him.

Something has to change; he can't keep loving her from a distance, have this ache in his chest a clear answer could easily soothe. Either she wants to go out with him, or she doesn't. Either she has feelings for him beyond friendship, or she doesn't. Either she wants to stay friends, or they go back to where they started.

Either way he needs to know.

"How does this sound?" Caitlin says, forcing him out of his daydreaming, and reads from her notebook. "Speed is a scalar quantity that refers to how fast an object is moving. Speed can be thought of as the rate at which an object covers distance. Velocity, on the other hand, is a vector quantity that refers to the rate at which an object changes its position."

"Sounds great."

Caitlin's gaze ticks over his face, down to the two taps his fingers leave behind on his own notebook.

Her eyes narrow on his face. "You think there's something missing."

He licks his lips and sits up straight. It shouldn't come as a shock that she reads him like an open book. Or, semi-open, at least, because if she could tell how into her he truly was she would've said something. Right?

"I think—we should add more information on fast and slow-moving objects."

"A fast-moving object has a high speed," Caitlin says, off the top of her head, her fingers wiring mid-air around her words, "and—covers a relatively large distance in a short amount of time."

"Contrast this to a slow-moving object," he adds, "which has a low speed and covers a relatively small amount of distance in the same amount of time?"

Caitlin jots down some keywords to form into longer sentences later. "Perfect," she says.

"We should probably mention zero velocity too."

Caitlin nods, making more notes. "And direction awareness."

He nods too, zoning in on the scratch of Caitlin's pen against the paper—he wonders if in some alternate universe he finds his brave, if in some universe they're dating; or if maybe, in some, they're complete strangers.

It's hard to imagine any of those scenarios.

"We make a great team, Mr Allen," Caitlin says, looking up at him with big eyes.

His eyes narrow.

"Dr Allen?" Caitlin corrects, squinting as she purses her lips. " _Professor_ Allen?"

"You can see me as a teacher?"

"I do."

Caitlin's smile comes warm and soft, as if she's picturing it in her mind's eye—him in front of a classroom of younger students, talking as enthusiastically about the Henderson Hasselbalch Equation as Dr Wells does. Could he do that? Could he teach chemistry? He's not much of a public speaker, but if it's on a subject he felt passionate about? Stranger things have happened.

"Inspiring young people the way Dr Wells does," Caitlin adds as an afterthought, but it's a nice one nonetheless, and he gets lost in it too, for a few moments too many.

There's no telling what he could do once he goes off the college, the amount of dreams he could fulfill, all the possibilities at the tips of his fingers. Every now and then he catches himself and the future doesn't seem so scary. In fact, college became something he started to look forward to, a new place with new friends, and likeminded people who were all equally crazy about science.

And then, like clockwork, the anxiety returned.

He's heard the horror stories same as everyone else, of people who did good in high school out of their depth in college, how they see their grade-point average plummeting under the strain and demands, under the mountains of homework. What if he's not ready for college because he might not have what it takes to make it?

" _Barry_ ," a voice calls, followed by the quick succession of footsteps.

He looks up to find Patty making her way over, struggling with a pile of books.

"Hey," Patty breathes, slightly winded, with a million dollar smile coloring her features. "Dr Wells wanted you to have these."

Patty places the books on the table.

"Thanks, Patty," he says, smiling up at the petite blonde. Patty hasn't said five words to him in the three years they've been taking classes together, yet somehow he got the sense they'd get along easily.

"I promised him I'd bring them by so—you know," Patty laughs, an awkward lilt in her tone, "he didn't have to—wheel all the way over here."

"Yeah." He laughs in spite of himself. "I really appreciate it."

"Okay." Patty giggles, toeing a step back. "I'll uh—see you around."

"Bye, Patty."

Patty takes another few steps backwards before turning on her heels, and leaves the library with a signature bounce in her stride. She often reminds him of Iris, her unfettered enthusiasm and big smile, all the extracurriculars she tackles. Patty's friends with Cisco, so he's not sure why he and Patty aren't.

"I think she likes you."

He blinks and stares into Caitlin's eyes.

"Patty?" he titters. "No, she doesn't."

Caitlin shrugs, and he frowns as her eyes fall to the books Patty delivered. Was that a hint of jealousy, or the kind of curious yet subtle nudge Iris gave him from time to time when something threatened to slip by him unnoticed?

"SAT prep?" Caitlin asks, while his train of thought unravels.

Does Patty like him? Is that why she keeps at a distance, the same way he has with Caitlin for years?

That's not—

It can't be—

He can't tell anymore; he's been so focused on Caitlin for so long he's lost perspective, and if Patty likes him, if _anyone_ likes him, it's escaped his attention in favor of focusing it on Caitlin. Patty's a great girl, and if he took the time to get to know someone else he might find Caitlin isn't the be-all end-all of his world, but he's not ready to find that out.

How is it that Caitlin can suspect someone likes him, but can't see that he likes her?

Or maybe she can, and she's not interested.

Or she expects him to make the first move.

Or he's doing that thing again where he makes a single sentence Caitlin says into something it's not.

"Yeah," he sighs, drawing a hand through his hair. "I'm really behind on everything. Essays and applications and—SATs."

"How come?" Caitlin says, a concerned frown knitting between her eyebrows. "You always seem so prepared."

"I guess—"

He takes a deep breath, and remembers how they sat at the diner a little over a week ago—Caitlin in that red sweater, her cheeks rosy, her eyes big and beautiful as she talked about healing, opened up to him about things that were at the tip of her tongue. He should grant her the same in return, because there are things that wage war inside him daily and Iris can only do so much from a distance.

Sometimes it seems like everyone around him has their lives figured out—Felicity and Iris, Caitlin, Cisco and Hartley, even Patty knew she wanted to be a CSI—and for a boy who's always had his life together for the most part he can't make up his mind. Summer had brought him some clarity, maybe because he'd been away from everyone and everything, but in terms of accepting that after graduation his life would be turned upside down—no, he can't even think about that.

"It used to remind me too much of Felicity," he confesses, and averts his eyes, exposed like a raw nerve; it gives him a small taste of what Caitlin must go through every time she talks about her mom, and it's not something he'd wish on his worst enemy. Well. Maybe Tony.

"She talked about college a lot," he says, "I needed a break from that."

"And now?" Caitlin asks.

"It's—" He shrugs, suddenly aware of how few times he's admitted this even to himself, "—going to change a lot of things."

Caitlin tilts her head, playing her fingers around her pen. "Not all change is bad."

A small smile pulls at his lips. "Yeah."

Change might be exactly what he and Caitlin need; if not for something mutual they're leaving unsaid than his own sanity. He can't go another year locking everything up inside—he needs it out there, whether or not it's reciprocated. But is he brave enough to change things between them so drastically?

"Let me help you," Caitlin says, reaching across the table for his arm. "With the SATs."

He huffs a laugh, and a shiver courses up his spine at the touch of her fingertips to his skin. "Because you don't have enough work of your own?"

Caitlin laughs, but nods. "I already took mine. I'd love to help."

He nods. "I'd like that."

What could be more motivating to find his brave than spending as much time as he can with the girl of his dreams? Though he's certain there's a flaw somewhere in his reasoning.

.

.

In the days that follow he starts seeing more of Cisco and Hartley again, after they enjoyed as much time together as they could steal. It's unclear how everything stands with Hartley's parents, if they talked about it at all, or if they decided to ignore what the Rathaways wanted and focused instead on what they wanted for themselves. He's not sure he knows how to have that conversation, with Cisco or Hartley, let alone the two of them together. It's not like he can relate.

"Bartholomew!" Hartley announces on Tuesday morning, walking up to him while he's riffling through his locker.

Cisco isn't far behind.

He winces at the sound of his full name yet again, and checks for any wary eyes; any day now Tony's going to pick up on Hartley's nickname for him and he'll have to suffer hearing it from him too.

Hartley and Cisco walk over to him, Cisco nudging his boyfriend with his elbow. He hasn't had the chance to talk to either of them since last week at the diner, so he hasn't been able to apologize—despite the resulting reconciliation he shouldn't have gone behind Cisco's back. What kind of best friend does that?

"We are pleased—" Hartley says, cut off by Cisco's sharp kick to his leg. Clearly Hartley's been told what words to use; there's absolutely no universe in existence where Hartley Rathaway thanks him out of his own volition.

"— _grateful_ ," Hartley corrects, grinding his teeth together, "for your help and Caitlin's in this matter."

 _Matter?_ he thinks, as if their relationship could ever be put in such cold terms. Then again, Hartley's not the sentimental type, so for him to mention it at all should be considered nothing short of miraculous.

"No problem, man." He shrugs, more than a little surprised he's getting off that easy—he thought they'd both be gunning for him for ever daring to interfere. He had half a mind to draft a will, in case of his sudden demise. "I mean, we're friends."

"However," Hartley says, smiling triumphantly, "don't think it escaped our attention that you two ganged up on us."

The metal-to-metal slam of his locker sounds too loud in the crowded hallway.

"What?"

"You pretended you asked her out," Hartley says.

"And then you lied to your _best bro_ ," Cisco adds, "all to get us in the same room? I don't know, isn't that—" Cisco looks at Hartley, who happily plays along and listens attentively to his boyfriend, "—a clear violation of the bro code?"

Both his friends look up at him, their eyes accusing him of doctoring together the entire situation, but there'd been no asking involved; Caitlin came up with the whole thing and expected him to go along, and he—

Honestly, what _wouldn't_ he do for Caitlin?

"It was _her idea_ ," he says carefully, but won't kid himself; he saw this coming from a mile away. Caitlin's idea or not, he'll be the one paying the price, and he dreads to think what it might be.

Cisco taps his index finger to his lips. "Interesting."

"We're not starting this again." He shakes his head. "Guys, I just want my senior year to be—"

"Loveless?" Cisco supplies. "Deprived of any form of human happiness? Miserable beyond all belief?"

He huffs. There's no way he comes across as that pathetic. Sure, he's the proverbial piner who wants a girl he's determined he can't have, _and sure_ , his life could infinitely improve if he were to take a chance on those feelings and express them to said girl, but—

He likes where he and Caitlin are now. Mostly. Sort of.

" _Fun_ ," he provides. "And uncomplicated."

Cisco punches his arm. "But she's so into you, dude!"

He recalls a conversation last year where Hartley claimed Cisco wouldn't see it if it hit him in the face, but that time's clearly passed. Maybe there's some truth to it: Caitlin can't see it because she's too close and he can't see it because he's too close to her. But then how did anyone ever ask anyone out successfully? Were they all magically braver than him?

Cisco digs a finger into his chest. "Don't make me go all _Saw_ on your asses and lock you up in a room with a scary puppet."

"What my better half is trying to say," Hartley chuckles, throwing an arm around Cisco's shoulders, "is we are making it our life's mission to get you to ask that girl out."

"I will," he says.

Hang on. _He will_? When was that decided?

"Your mission..." Cisco says.

"Guys—" he tries to get a word in, but fails once Hartley adds, " _should you choose to accept it_..."

For a guy who's not into pop culture, or at least claims not to be, Hartley does quote his fair share of popular franchises.

" _Guys_ ," he insists, because as much as he's growing accustomed to the idea of asking Caitlin out, he won't be able to with everyone pressuring him into it.

It serves him right, maybe, to get a taste of his own medicine after what he pressured Cisco and Hartley into, but this isn't the same thing—this wasn't the same thing by a long shot. He'll ask Caitlin out in his own time, on his own terms, not willy-nilly in between two breaths he can no longer catch.

"Hey, faggots!" Tony calls down the hallway, getting more than a few disapproving stares. Despite Hartley's reputation, most of the students liked Cisco and Hartley, if not only for being one of the few out couples in the school.

Hartley rolls his eyes, but Tony gets no rise out of either his friends. "We should go," he says, entwining his and Cisco's fingers for good measure.

"Antony! Woodward!"

The voice that travels through the hallway sends a hot shiver up his spine.

Caitlin.

All three of them turn in time to see Caitlin grab at the front of Tony's shirt and pull him into an empty classroom, the door falling shut behind them. Closed door or not though, Caitlin's sharp voice resounds down the hallway, and if the noise is anything to go by Tony's ears will be ringing by the time she's done with him.

Hartley's mouth drops open a little. "That girl will never cease to amaze me," he says, taking the words right out his mouth.

He'd heard stories of Caitlin's spectacular anger, from both herself and Felicity, but never had the misfortune of being at the receiving end of it. A blessing, it would seem, because this he truly wouldn't wish on anyone. As long as she's at it though, he won't be getting in her way.

"Yeah." Cisco nods, and clasps a hand around his shoulder. "She's a keeper."

He can't help but smile. As if he needed to be told.

.

.

Over the weekend he helps his dad gather leaves the trees showered down over the front and backyard, and store all the garden furniture in the shed for the winter. They're at it for several hours before his mom calls them in for lunch, and they both know they'll be at this next weekend again, as well as the next few weekends after that.

The work takes his mind off his most pressing concerns, but not for long, because the moment he tries to start his homework upstairs in his room, his mind wanders to everything that happened the past week—Iris' defense of bravery, Caitlin's implication that Patty likes him without him ever having realized it, Cisco's and Hartley's insistence that he ask Caitlin out.

And he will. He's about 85 percent certain he will, _eventually_ , ask Caitlin out.

Now just isn't the right time. He has to prepare for the SATs, ask at least two of his teachers to write him a recommendation letter, and he has to pick some topics for his college essays.

He covers both his hands over his face.

How many more excuses will he come up with before he runs out?

He sits staring blankly at his computer screen for half an hour straight, and gives up on getting any work done altogether. The closer he pulls this reality where he'll ask Caitlin out the more nervous it makes him, and he's unconsciously braced for rejection. Why even ask her out in the first place when all he expects is a resounding 'no'?

He heads downstairs in the hopes of finding a distraction there, but his mom's busy behind her computer, replying to all her emails, and his dad's lounged in the living room with a newspaper, enjoying some downtime. Both of them would probably stop what they're doing should he ask them to talk, but he doesn't want to bother them with anything as trivial as a crush, or his dilemma surrounding it.

"Son," his father says without looking up. "You've hovering."

He plunks down on the couch opposite his dad. The last time he talked with his dad about girls was two summers ago, when Felicity's big move to Starling City came closer and closer and they hadn't yet made up their minds about what they would do. His dad had told him to weigh the pros and cons of a long distance romance, but hadn't seemed all too eager about the prospect of his teenage son trying to wrap his mind around something so serious.

"Do you think I should ask Caitlin out?" he blurts out unintended, and starts picking at his nails.

His dad slowly lowers the newspaper to his lap. "Do you want to ask her out?"

"Yeah, I do."

More than anything in the world he longs for the bravery to ask Caitlin out somewhere in the near future, and he's been far too preoccupied with what might follow his question. Caitlin could say no. Caitlin could want nothing more to do with him once he does.

But Caitlin could say yes, too, and that possibility near incapacitates him.

"What stopped you before?"

"Her boyfriend," he mutters, even though the few beers he'd had at Ronnie's party last year nearly makes him into a liar.

His dad's eyebrows rise.

"Who she—broke up with before the summer," he says and swallows hard, reminded that his dad doesn't keep tabs on Caitlin's love life the way he does.

Huh. Maybe he does come across as quite pathetic.

"What's stopping you now?" his dad asks. "Are you worried she'll say no?"

"Not—exactly."

He rubs the back of his neck. He's worried she'll say no and he'll fall into a huge black hole where his life ceases to make sense, because if he can't have a crush on Caitlin then what's been the point of anything? He's worried that if she says yes he'll do something to screw it up, like say the wrong thing at the wrong time, something he's astoundingly good at.

He's worried about everything that might go wrong, and terrified of everything that could go right and he's _unbelievably_ _stuck_. He has hit a huge brick wall made out of his own fears and it won't let him through; it won't let him reach his brave.

And quite frankly he's tired of feeling like his.

"It's just that I've liked her for a very long time," he says.

His dad snorts. "You're telling me."

" _Dad_ ," he despairs, and falls back in the couch, closing his eyes. Maybe it's been too long; he's gotten far too comfortable with his crush being just that, a forlorn love from afar, and he has no clue how to change that.

"I can't tell you what to do, son," his dad says. "You have to decide for yourself how much you're willing to risk."

He opens his eyes and sighs. When's the last time he made a decision and followed through?

There are so many risks to wearing his heart on his sleeve. So many things could change.

 _Not all change is bad_ , Caitlin's words ring in his ears, hopefully, maybe naively so. What could possibly change if Caitlin rejected him? What's there to risk besides a friendship he and Caitlin both treasure? A lab-partnership they've invested years in? The torment he's likely to get from Tony should he find out he asked Caitlin out?

He's never going to see the end of this—he'll be this pathetic heap of hormone-addled indecisiveness well into his twenties, if not longer, and a boy like that doesn't deserve a girl like Caitlin. A girl as intelligent as Caitlin knows better than to date a teenage boy unable to make up his mind.

He heads for the kitchen to get Krypto's leash—maybe a walk will refocus his thoughts—but before he makes it there his mom grabs at his arm and pulls him into her office. In two seconds flat he comes face to face with two fierce green eyes, near identical to his save their clear lack of indecision.

"Don't listen to your father, young man," his mom says, in that _mom voice_ of hers that sounds both her determination and her caring. "You ask that girl out quick as you can."

He blinks a few times, wondering if the action will make his mom fade like a specter, but she doesn't disappear. Unlike his dad his mom's always quick to give advice, and this sounded an awful lot like Iris' insistence that he ask Caitlin out. If he didn't know any better he'd think they were in cahoots.

His mom runs a hand through his hair. "You're too young to have regrets."

There's that word again, _regrets_ , like his entire life should be lived in service of avoiding them. He doesn't think he has any already, none that weigh him down, but he will if he ignores how he feels about Caitlin.

Yes. He will ask her out. Consequences be damned.

He's such a brave soul.

"Thanks, mom."

His mom lovingly pats his cheek, making him laugh, and returns to her work. He couldn't imagine life without her, not the way Caitlin was forced to face life without her mom—he can't begin to understand what Caitlin must've gone through, what she must still be going through, but he hopes maybe they can talk about it more now that door's been opened.

"Mom?" he calls.

His mom looks up.

"Do you have regrets?"

His mom smiles warm and open. "Everyone has regrets, Barry," she says, "But none involving you or your father."

.

.

"Earth to Bartholomew," Hartley says, shoving the proofread version of his History essay back under his nose, the paper rife with red marker; grammar isn't one of his strong suits. Luckily he has friends like Caitlin and Hartley who never hesitate pointing out the error of his ways.

"Thanks," he mutters, and files the paper away to deal with later, too preoccupied with the where and how he'll ask Caitlin out. He could slip it randomly into one of their conversations, here at the library, in class, in the hallway getting to class. Maybe even over lunch.

 _Would you like to go out with me?_

 _I was thinking maybe we could go out sometime?_

 _Would you like to have dinner with me?_

It'll be real this time around. He won't be drunk like at Ronnie's party and he won't be pretending, and there probably won't be a wingman to keep him upright should his knees give out, and—

"You know," Hartley says, "Cisco's making a paper mache Jigsaw in his basement."

He laughs, Hartley's joke sinking in alongside the thought that Cisco's rubbing off on Hartley. If he doesn't get over himself soon he might need Cisco's creepy Jigsaw to force the situation.

Maybe he's never cut Hartley enough slack before. Clearly Cisco sees something in Hartley that was worth falling in love with, worth going behind Hartley's parents' backs for. Cisco and Hartley have a relationship they're willing to fight for and if that's not inspiring he doesn't know what is.

"You do want to ask her out," Hartley says, looking up from his math homework.

"Of course." He nods, and breathes a listless, "Yeah," while copying Caitlin's tick and starts chewing his lower lip.

There are a lot of things he wants, rational or otherwise. He wants to find a way to deal with his anxiety about college and choosing a major; he wants Tony to back off for the rest of the school year and leave him alone; he wants Caitlin to go out with him and fall in love with him and feel what he feels. There are a thousand and one things that he wants, but what he wants and molding the reality around him to fit those desires are two wholly different things.

And since when has he taken charge of his own path in life?

"What if it changes things?"

"That's the whole point, Barry."

The sudden sound of his name demands his attention.

"You have to trust that it'll change things for the better," Hartley says. "That's why I asked Cisco out."

For the first time since they've met, Hartley catches him unaware. They don't have the kind of friendship that's so far allowed either of them to pour their hearts out, or talk about anything remotely personal—he challenges that every time he talks about Caitlin, or Felicity when they were still dating, but that's the kind of guy he is. Hartley doesn't usually open up about anything. Not to him, anyway.

"You guys are okay?"

 _We're doing this?_ Hartley's eyes ask as one of his eyebrows rises, but this isn't a point he's willing to concede. He let his friends down over the summer by not checking in more regularly, and Hartley had suffered an immense blow; he'd come out to his parents who then proceeded to demand he break things off with Cisco—and Hartley had listened, even though it'd made him miserable.

Would he do the same should his parents tell him to give up on his crush on Caitlin? Would he not reason with them that he can't help what he feels, and won't abandon that simply because they don't understand? But that's not blame he can assign to Hartley—parents are supposed to want what's best for their children, but what if parents can't accept an intricate part of what makes their son an individual who's capable of making his own choices?

"We're okay." Hartley nods, as if still trying to convince himself, and fixes his eyes on the table. "I was a fool to tell my parents. I thought they'd at least—"

The air in his lungs grows heavy with gloom. He hasn't spent a day in his life without being able to rely on his parents' guidance. They've supported him through every single thing, from the first steps he took running straight for his mother's arms to setting off a small chemical fire at his elementary school's science fair. His mom tended to his wounds and nursed him when he got sick, and to this day his dad made his favorite chicken noodle soup; they let him keep the light on at night, and they let him sleep between them whenever the dark got a little bit too scary. They didn't lecture him about dating and rarely grounded him—in hindsight he probably got away with a lot more than other kids his age would.

But parents who wouldn't accept him for who he is? That's unimaginable.

Hartley shrugs. "Hardly matters now."

"They're your parents," he says, not in an attempt to make Hartley see that he should try harder, but to make him realize he should expect better from them.

"You and I have a very different definition of what a parent is, Barry." Hartley looks up, his eyes small and beady behind his glasses, but his gaze falters too perceptibly back down to the table.

"I never felt like I belonged anywhere, you know?" Hartley says. "Not at school. Not at home."

He doesn't know. He's never known this about Hartley—it's the impression he created in relation to others, but that was never anything more than an educated guess. Hartley might be one of the smartest students in this school, and the Rathaways are rich, so Hartley transferring to a public high school had never made sense to him. Not a lot of things about Hartley ever had. He figured Hartley liked it that way, since he never fought to change anything—but now he thinks maybe he had. Had he asked for the transfer? Did he want to try his hand at another type of school to see if he might find something worth calling home?

"And then there was Cisco Ramon"—Hartley laughs—"who makes me feel like a fledgling idiot."

He thinks back to his first few times meeting Felicity, the times he's tried to talk to Caitlin about anything significant, and how he was reduced to a stuttering mess who couldn't control his mouth. Was that a good thing?

Hartley throws up his hands. "He makes things better."

He smiles, mostly to himself, watching Hartley return to his work as if nothing had been said at all. But that's okay. Even if Hartley should deny ever saying anything, he's glad Hartley got to vent and trusted him enough to open up. They might never be the best of friends, but he wants to be supportive no matter what.

.

.

Two days later, his lower lip mangled raw and bloody from chewing it so much, he still hasn't found the courage to ask Caitlin out. They've sat side by side or opposite each other in the library almost every day since school started, they've had moments of silence in class where he definitely had a shot, but he hasn't taken any of them. This has gone beyond the simple fear of rejection; he's terrified that he may actually prefer to pine and wallow because it's what he's gotten used to.

"Barry?" Caitlin asks, "Are you okay?"

He gives up trying to make sense of any of the words in his notebook, and meets Caitlin's eyes.

"You've been staring at the same paragraph for fifteen minutes," she says, a little too amused at his expense.

What's stopping him from saying something right now? Caitlin's right there, in the exact same place she's been for a while now, and he hasn't scared her off so far. What makes him think she'd run, anyway? He has no basis for assuming Caitlin would disappear from his life even if she turned him down.

He can't keep doing this. He can't keep waiting for outside forces to change so he doesn't have to make a move. He can't expect to be brave without risking something, and he can't risk anything without a little faith, in himself or the people in his life. Caitlin would never intentionally hurt him.

"Actually"—he stares at his fingers—"there's something I've been meaning to ask?" he says, adding, "You?" belatedly in some vain attempt to stall for time.

Caitlin perks up. "Oh?"

If he doesn't say it now he never will.

"Yeah, you know how—Charlie," he says.

 _Charlie_?

"—likes hanging around Krypto."

He frowns. Okay. Nice improv.

But that went downhill far too fast.

If Caitlin notices his nerves she chooses not to comment, and it helps him breathe a little easier. Instead she smiles, "What about it?" with her eyes wide in anticipation of his proposal.

"Maybe it could be fun"—he swallows hard—"if he helped me walk him from time to time."

He's not a total disaster yet. He had no intention of dragging Caitlin's little brother into his nefarious plan to finally ask her out, but it might pay off in the grander scheme of things; Charlie could use a friend, couldn't he?

Surprise riddles itself in Caitlin's eyes as her face opens into a smile. "That would be amazing," she breathes gratefully, but her face falls again soon after.

"Are you sure?" she asks. "I wouldn't want to impose."

His eyes narrow. "It's not really imposing if I'm the one—asking, is it?"

"I don't want to get Charlie's hopes up, that's all."

Caitlin stares down at her hands. Is that what she thinks of him? That he'd suggest this without having the intention of following through on it? He'd never fake creating a bond with a boy as obviously fragile as Charlie to get in Caitlin's good graces.

"He's still fragile and very self-conscious for his age and I—" Caitlin breathes, looking up again with the same grateful smile. "It's really sweet of you to offer."

No, this isn't a judgment she passes on him; this is a big sister being protective of her younger sibling, a little brother who hasn't been the same since their mom passed away. He's seen it in Charlie's demeanor, slow to catch someone's eye, if at all, and so very quiet. Except around Krypto.

"He's very lucky to have you as a big sister."

"My mom's the one who knew how to talk to him." Caitlin shrugs. "She got him out of his shell."

"What about you?"

Caitlin blinks. "Excuse me?"

He clears his throat, taken by surprise once he realizes he'd voiced his thoughts. Who got Caitlin out of her shell? Who got protective of her when her walls rose, when her shoulders slumped and her head lowered, and tears filled her eyes? Her dad? Ronnie, still, even though they broke up?

"I'm sorry," he says, "I shouldn't have—"

Way to put his foot in his mouth.

"It's none of my business."

Part of him wishes he could ask her things without coming across too personal, but he guesses their friendship has its bounds.

"I'm more like my dad," Caitlin admits, her voice soft yet fragile, like any moment it could start shaking. "We deal with things our own way."

He's seen her school her expressions often enough to know that her own way meant _on her own_ , solitary, individually.

Meeting her eyes his heart rate picks up—it's astounding how often he misreads Caitlin's expressions despite claiming to know her so well. More than half of that has to do with the fact that Caitlin masters her emotions like few others in his life, and he can't stand to think of her as cold. Caitlin is protective of herself, of her heart, of her trauma, and who can blame her after what she's gone through?

"I didn't mean to—"

But he did. Every time Caitlin opens up to him, even if it's a tiny little bit, he sees it like some loose strand he can't help but tug on, unraveling her bit by bit. He's been like this as a friend for as long as he can remember, as a best friend, and apparently he's like this as a boy who has a crush on a girl who takes a long time showing that loose strand of emotion.

Caitlin tugs at the sleeves of her sweater, pulling them well past her wrists and hooks her thumbs inside. "It's okay."

"Really," she insists, inclining her head to catch his eyes. "It's not easy for me to talk about, so I don't. Not really." She draws in a deep breath, a small hopeful smile curling around her mouth. "But it's nice to know someone cares."

Their eyes lock and the contact lasts long enough to chase away all his fears, all his doubts, every tiny excuse he's used up until now to avoid any risks.

He cares so much it threatens to explode inside him.

A frightful thought occurs, dredged up from the deepest wells of his fears.

Ronnie cared.

Did Caitlin talk to Ronnie about all the same things they now talk about? They met weeks before Caitlin lost her mom and Ronnie pulled closer—Caitlin let him in when logic dictated no one should've been allowed to, and they dated for two years. He made Ronnie a promise last year, one he fully intends to keep. Maybe that's what's really stopping him. If he asked her out after the promise he made, wouldn't he simply come second best after a guy who'd been there for her through the toughest times? He promised Ronnie he'd look after her, because that's what she needed, but those concerns were Ronnie's, that _devotion_ was Ronnie's.

Who's he to use that to further his own agenda?

"Is there a reason Cisco's spying on us?" Caitlin asks out of the blue, staring over his shoulder with a suspicion glint in her eyes.

He blinks and follows her gaze across the room, where he narrowly sees Cisco duck out of sight behind a row of books. Stealth itself.

"Yeah, it's—" He huffs a laugh. "I told you I'd be the one to get in trouble."

Caitlin winces in sympathy. "Did you tell him the whole thing was my idea?"

He nods. "I did."

"What do you think he has planned?"

"My slow and painful demise," he says. "It's what I deserve for violating the bro code."

"I'm sorry," Caitlin says, but fails to hide a smile.

"Don't be." He laughs, folding his arms together on top of the table. "You were right. They had something worth fighting for."

Caitlin mirrors his posture, lifting out of her chair an inch or two while she nods, scrunching her nose.

His breath flits from his lungs like ice would melt in the hot blistering sun—would he be breaking his promise if he were to ask Caitlin out? Wouldn't that simply be staying true to himself and to his heart in finally admitting that _yes, he does want it all_ , he wants to win Caitlin, he wants to deserve her love. He wants to be her boyfriend.

And it's about damn time he did something about that.

.

.

Early evening sets cool with a soft breeze, so he throws on a light jacket— _the red one_ , his mom insists; apparently it's his color. He grabs Krypto's leash, instantly pulling the golden retriever's focus away from a tennis ball he's been chewing on for the past half hour, and heads for Caitlin's, where they agreed to meet tonight. She'd fought him about who would meet who at whose house, but he assured Caitlin that if Krypto got a short walk in already he'd be less likely to pull any tricks around Charlie—Caitlin hadn't said another word.

The short walk might burn some energy for Krypto, yet it does little to settle his nerves. If he's completely honest 'terrified' would be a more accurate way to describe his state of mind, but he swore to himself this would be the night.

Tonight he's asking Caitlin out on a date, and whether or not she rejects him he won't question the outcome—life's too short for any regrets and he's confident their friendship's strong enough to weather any awkward hurdles that might follow. Caitlin won't leave him feeling like a fool.

Crossing the street he recalls asking Felicity out for the first time, in a hallway filled with students, out by her locker, with Iris hovering somewhere close by. He'd huffed and stuttered and turned red in the face, because getting to know Felicity had been a challenge of its own, and Felicity repaid him with a fair amount of stuttering.

Everything had changed from their first date onwards, and deep down, in a place he's done his best to quiet over the past week or so, he can't help but wonder if he wants to change what he has with Caitlin now.

He values their friendship and their partnership, but he's tried ignoring those fearful thoughts as best as he can. Nothing indicates he'll lose either of those things should he give voice to his feelings, and for the first time he made a decision he will absolutely stick by: he can't keep locking everything up, or count on others to coax it out. Iris might've already made something happen if she were here, but the thought that he's doing this on his own, that he's taking charge, calms whatever's screaming inside him.

He arrives at Caitlin's twenty minutes later, running up the steps leading to the front door.

He's barely rung the doorbell or the door opens, and his eyes locate Caitlin's eyes in one second flat. His breath hitches and he stutters his signature, "Hi," as if it's the first time ever seeing her.

It's hard to imagine it's been more than two years since they first met in class, since that math problem lay the basis for a crush that's lasted up until now, that's soared to new heights over the past nine months and now they're here, as friends.

And one of them's about to change everything.

"Hi." Caitlin smiles, and grabs a hand behind her, soon revealing Charlie, who has his arms clutched around his big sister's legs.

"Hey, buddy."

The boy smiles sheepishly. "Hi, Barry," he says, and buries his face against Caitlin's hip.

Caitlin smiles fondly, but reaches down to free herself from her brother's grip. She shrugs on a dark jacket over her otherwise colorful sweater, and helps Charlie into a jeans jacket, even though the boy does so reluctantly. Then she steers him onto the front porch and locks the house behind her—he assumes her dad's out working.

"Doggie!" Charlie calls and runs over the Krypto, who's all too happy with the extra attention.

"Before we leave—" he says, and squats down to meet Charlie at eyelevel, "there's some things you have to remember."

Charlie falls silent and stares up at his big sister for help, but Caitlin puts a finger to her lips and taps one to her left ear, a gesture Charlie seems to understand immediately. For the next two minutes he has Charlie's complete attention; he explains in great detail that Charlie should keep Krypto's leash close to his body, otherwise Krypto might take that as a sign to take Charlie for a walk rather than the other way around. This gets a laugh out of Caitlin, and a deadly serious nod from Charlie.

Krypto's usually off his leash unless they have to cross a busy street, but if Charlie wants to walk Krypto on a regular basis they need to start this training from scratch again—otherwise the dog might never listen to Charlie.

After the brief tutorial they're on their way, Charlie walking ahead studiously holding on to Krypto's leash, he and Caitlin side by side behind him.

"This is really good for him," Caitlin says, never taking her eyes off her brother.

By the sound of it Charlie's muttering 'good boy' every few seconds, taking his direction of talking to Krypto very seriously.

"He's really good with the younger kids at school," Caitlin says, "He helps them out and shows them how things are done. I think he just needs someone to care for."

He buries his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Feel free to borrow Krypto as often as you'd like."

"Thanks, Barry."

"Not entirely selfless on my part," he mutters under his breath, low enough for Caitlin not to catch it—maybe somewhere this is about Charlie and not some elaborate excuse to get close to Caitlin, but the more he thinks about it the more he realizes he probably wouldn't be here if it weren't for his feelings for Caitlin. Does that matter, though, if he's helping Charlie? Does the part where this is a selfless act not supersede the selfish part?

Is he making up excuses again?

"Cait?" he blurts out, and halts in his tracks.

"Hmm?" Caitlin stops too, and calls, "Charlie! Not too far!", giving him enough time to gather his thoughts.

"Caitlin—" he says, turning the name over in his mouth, and he can't figure out why he doesn't just continue, why he doesn't ask what he's been meaning to for weeks now.

" _Dr Snow_ ," Caitlin provides, and _curtsies_ of all things, followed by the kind of smile dreams are made of.

His dreams, in particular.

He laughs, and his heart gives a single dull punch against his ribcage before the sound of his heartbeat fades. There's no need for him to be nervous or terrified, he's made up his mind about this. His friends' words spook through his mind— _Caitlin likes him_ , so what reason would there be for him to worry?

"I've been wondering if maybe you'd like to go out with me sometime," he says in one single breath, and he's honestly not above hightailing it straight home right now.

All or nothing. Here goes.

But Caitlin locks her hands together behind her back, bounces to the tips of her toes, smiling, "Of course," as if it's the simplest thing to exist in every interdimensional pocket of space.

His eyebrows rise. "Yeah?"

Caitlin said yes.

She said yes.

Caitlin nods fondly. "I thought you'd never ask."

"So maybe—a movie?" he asks, then frowns, "Or something?"

How has he not thought about this part? He's been so preoccupied by what Caitlin might say that he never considered what they might do should she agree to go out with him. They could go out to dinner, watch a movie afterwards, or get ice creams at the mall—unless that was lame. Maybe he could take her to a fair? A carnival?

Caitlin shrugs. "Surprise me."

He breathes a smile, and a kind of euphoria tingles in the tips of his fingers, his toes, his long limbs; it takes him all his strength not to start running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.

"Friday?" he asks.

"Seven?"

He nods, already seeing himself on her front porch with a small bouquet of flowers, his best jacket and a crisp outfit and he can't even imagine all the colors Caitlin might be wearing.

Then, a sudden war flashback.

He was late on his first date with Felicity.

"I might be—late," he says, and swallows hard. "Not on— Not on purpose. I just—"

"Barry." Caitlin steps forward and draws a hand down his arm. "We've been lab partners for a long time."

He frowns. "Yeah?"

" _I know_ ," she whispers.

He giggles, before they're both distracted by Krypto's barking and Charlie crying, "Caity!" followed by his boyish laughter.

Krypto's licking Charlie's face.

He and Caitlin share a moment of laughter, and he calls, "Krypto!" to take the golden retriever's attention away from Charlie. They walk over and he clasps a hand around Krypto's mouth, muttering, "Silly dog," while Caitlin runs a wet wipe down Charlie's face.

"You silly bean." Caitlin cackles, caught up in her brother's uncontainable giggles.

He decides then and there this hadn't been selfish at all, but an honest offer he would've made whether he had a crush on Caitlin or not—they're friends, and Charlie needed something or someone to take care of; why not offer to help?

The walk lasts for another half hour, winding up and down the streets of their neighborhood, Charlie alive and energetic until his bedtime starts approaching. He couldn't have wished for a better night—he asked out the girl of his dreams and helped Charlie out; he conquered some of his fears and if that's not plenty for a day's work he doesn't know what qualifies.

How could he have let this drag on for so long?

Oh, right. Ronnie Raymond.

"Thank you so much for tonight, Barry," Caitlin says once they've circled back to her house, and she cautiously pets Krypto on the head. Charlie, far less cautious, throws his arms around Krypto.

"Any time." He smiles softly, struck again by how easy this was, how quickly her answer followed his question, and—

"Cait"—he frowns, recalling something else she said—"what did you mean by 'you thought I'd never ask'?"

Caitlin shies a smile into a sideway glance, one he's never seen her cast before and for a moment or two he's lost. Did she want him to ask her out?

"I like you, Barry."

His cheeks set aflame. His heart starts an all-out assault on his ribcage and any oxygen is filtered out by the dark night's air, dissipating in the space between their bodies.

 _Caitlin likes him_.

It's one thing to hear it from all the people around him, but from his crush herself? Those four words—I like you, Barry—will spin circles in front of his eyes for weeks. Caitlin Snow likes him. Him, the science nerd. Him, the undecided. Him, the hopeless lovesick fool.

Caitlin said yes.

"But I'm an old-fashioned girl." Caitlin shrugs, and meets his eyes again.

The contact lasts longer than needed, and Charlie's at the door shouting his sister's name over and over, but he can't let go, not now, maybe not ever, because how long before tonight could he have asked her out and gotten a 'yes'? Had Iris and Hartley been right all along? Had Caitlin liked him even when she was still with Ronnie?

"CAI-TY!" Charlie calls, and Caitlin blinks, looking at her brother over her shoulder, before she gives him an apologetic smile.

"I should go."

"Yeah."

"Goodnight, Barry."

He beams. "Night, Caitlin."

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._

*any and all notions of AP Physics in this chapter were taken from PhysicsClassroom dot Com


	9. Chapter 9

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter nine

.

.

Early morning rouses him quietly, birds twittering in a tree outside, a mailbox or two opening and closing down the street with a noticeable pop, and plates being lifted out of a cupboard in the kitchen downstairs. Around him, the neighborhood wakes slowly, and with it a sense of the day.

He opens his eyes to his same old wood ceiling, in the same old room he's occupied since childhood, though somewhat matured around him—the _Star Wars_ posters had remained, as had the science kits and books, some dinosaurs on top of his cupboards, while his bed had been replaced by a larger one between his first two growth spurts. He no longer had an aquarium next to the door; Nemo and his friends moved downstairs into the living room along with the children's books and old clothes his mom relegated to the basement.

It seemed like the same room, yet it wasn't, nor was the small desk by the window the same—because he had changed. Light struck the room in more vibrant colors and the sheets flowed more gently against his body, the mattress softer, his skin tighter, his head clearer. From one day to the next he had turned from a boy desperate for a relationship with a girl he thought he had no shot with, too afraid to change anything, to looking forward to a date with that girl.

 _I like you, Barry_ , Caitlin had said, and those words hadn't left him for three days straight.

Jumping out of bed his alarm goes off, but he's skipped into the shower before he can identify the song on the radio. He hums along nonetheless, or tries to, as he soaps up and rinses, as he gets dressed and styles his hair, and quickly brushes his teeth.

Today's the day: his date with Caitlin. He picked a place and ran it by Iris to be safe, but she'd applauded his creativity. Things are different with Caitlin; he'd been friends with Felicity for a long time before asking her out, but he never got the same sense of knowing her so intimately. Of course, he knew little about dating three years ago outside of the things he'd caught on television, so his confidence might stem from more experience rather than a difference between Felicity and Caitlin.

How would Felicity react to him going out with Caitlin, the same person she's been trying to rebuild a relationship with? Would she try and dissuade him? Would she be jealous? Should he tell her before she finds out from Caitlin? He's not sure he'd want to hear about Felicity dating anyone just yet, so maybe it's best to let this rest for now. He has no idea how this date will turn out, and if he can he'd like to keep it a secret between him and Caitlin for as long as possible, co-conspirators getting to know each other better.

"You're up early," his dad says, a disembodied voice coming from behind the large pages of the newspaper when he joins his parents in the kitchen.

He pops two slices of bread into the toaster.

"Shhh," his mom hushes, kissing his cheek in passing, and sits down at the table. "He's been on time every day this week. It'd be a shame if he broke his winning streak now."

"This new girl's good for him."

"You guys know I'm standing right here, right?"

He looks down at his mom, preoccupied with her fruit bowl, then at his dad, who doesn't abandon an inch of his newspaper. Caitlin isn't a new girl, not by far, but he wouldn't put it past his parents to tease him about the new vigor in his step, the 'on time' winning streak he's been on, or the way he's bound to be freaking out over his outfit later tonight; he had some options put aside.

"I can hear you."

"Yeah, honey"—his mom locks eyes with his dad as the newspaper lowers for a few moments, and his parents share a conspiratorial smile—"Have a good day at school."

His eyes narrow, but he leaves it at that; his parents' teasing has only ever been indicative of their care for him, and the fact that they know how much Caitlin means to him helps take off some of the edge.

Because he won't kid himself: he'll be nervous as hell come tonight.

He grabs his toast and heads out, with enough time to walk to school for the third time this week—he could take his mom's car, or even catch the bus at the end of the street, but his limbs have been restless for days, charged with a force stronger than him. His dad's probably right; Caitlin could be good for him, but he suspects his punctuality has less to do with Caitlin's influence on him than, well, _Caitlin's influence on him_.

He's not bettering himself, Caitlin doesn't hold power over him, and he's definitely not copying any behavior he's yet to learn—he's a mix of nerves and excitement and exhilaration that's effectively messing with his sleep cycle. Barry Allen before he asked out Caitlin didn't walk to school, he didn't arrive with ten minutes to spare before first period, no, he had to borrow his mom's car last minute and arrived out-of-breath in the nick of time or too late, and certainly didn't wake up before his alarm.

Caitlin's 'of course' had been a strike of lightning, firing up electrons now moving near the speed of light. It's the only explanation for him being on time.

He deposits the books he won't need for his first two periods in his locker, his eyes all the while searching for Caitlin, like magnets seeking out their polar opposites. Maybe he should pace himself, maybe he shouldn't want to spend all his time with Caitlin, but everything in him screams to pull close, be by her side whenever he can and luxuriate in the idea that she wants to be there just as bad.

He locates Caitlin outside of the lab, talking to Tony.

His heartbeat dulls to white noise, his eyes reading Caitlin's body language like words on a page.

Her books are hugged close to her body, her shoulders hunched, like she's bracing against whatever Tony's discussing with her. Despite her defensive stance she speaks to Tony with a low and calm voice, her decisive hand gestures making it clear they've had this conversation before and she's not that interested in having it again.

Meanwhile he keeps his distance—Caitlin's proven she can handle Tony, and he'd rather not give the linebacker another reason to target him.

Still, he's fully aware that the few reasons Tony and Caitlin would have to talk to each other included math, and Ronnie—and he can guess which of the two they're discussing. How long would it take for him to shake the memory of Ronnie? How long before Ronnie's name stops needles pricking the base of his skull, like some prehistoric sixth sense?

Tony leaves Caitlin's side, taking no note of him, and departs for his own class down the hall.

He lingers a few moments, shuffling where he stands, watching Caitlin bite at her lip and sigh, before making her way inside of the lab for class. Who does Tony think he is, walking around like some kind of gatekeeper for the goings-on here at school? What if he scared Caitlin and she won't want to go out with him anymore?

What if Ronnie can yet blow his chances?

"What did Tony want?" he asks as he settles next to Caitlin at the lab table, his tone a little too jealous for his taste. This isn't Caitlin's fault.

"He asked about Ronnie," Caitlin says, but stares blankly ahead once Dr Wells enters the room, and makes no efforts to talk to him all through class.

He wonders if she still talked to Ronnie the way he talked to Felicity, or if he's no longer allowed to refer to Felicity as his Hot Ex—it's a vocabulary they built as boyfriend and girlfriend, but they haven't been a couple for a long time. Should he look at his own actions before thinking about Caitlin's? Should he ignore the uncomfortable set to Caitlin's shoulders at the mention of her ex-boyfriend's name? Or should he push a little harder and get to the bottom of this before he ends up getting hurt?

He still had feelings for Felicity after twelve months, that's what led to that kiss before the summer—it might not have been the love they once shared, but he cared about Felicity and always will. The thought that Caitlin might still see Ronnie that way, because it's been barely three months for her, sets over his head like a dark storm cloud unable to seed lightning.

Distance split up Caitlin and Ronnie the way it had him and Felicity, and this ugly green thing snuggles against his chest. _Hello, I'm jealousy_.

"How's your SAT prep coming?" Caitlin asks as class winds down.

"Hmm?"

He looks up, any discomfort gone from Caitlin's deep brown eyes, chasing some of his own gray skies. "Yeah, good." He runs a hand through his hair, trying to remember if he'd gotten any work done at all this week—as distracting as his prospective date with Caitlin had been though, he hadn't gotten too far behind schedule. "The flashcards you gave me were really helpful."

Caitlin smiles, packing her things together.

Exiting the lab together they head for Caitlin's locker.

"So about tonight," he says, so caught up in his worrisome train of thought he almost asks, _Is it still on? You haven't changed your mind?_ because she's totally within her rights to do that—he wouldn't want her to agree simply because he helped out Charlie, or because she felt she owed him as a friend.

 _Breathe,_ Barry.

"I'll pick you up at seven?" his mouth gratefully decides on. "After dinner?"

"Sounds great." Caitlin beams. "Where are we going?"

He winks, more suave than he's ever managed. "For me to know."

Caitlin pouts a little. "How will I know what to wear?"

"Uh—"

His brain short circuits, while his eyes tick down her blue cotton dress, the perfect bow around her waist. Can he answer that question without insulting her fashion sense? He's not taking her anywhere fancy, and she'd look good in about anything—and he doesn't have much of an opinion on this one way or the other.

"Relax, Barry." Caitlin laughs, and grabs a hand around his shoulder. "I'll figure something out."

He releases a breath, and a short laugh, and thinks she really shouldn't be able to trip him up so easily. An old thought echoes through him, something about being cool and having moves around Caitlin, but alas, no such mystery tools have shown up.

"See you at lunch," Caitlin says, and she skips away, light as a feather, stealing away some of the oxygen around him.

It's not his place to worry about whether or not Caitlin still talks to Ronnie, or to judge when he talks to Felicity every week. Caitlin isn't cold or uncaring; he can't imagine her cutting all ties with Ronnie so soon after their breakup, especially not after what Ronnie had meant to her.

What did it mean then, that Caitlin has wanted him to ask her out for a while? Was it too soon, and Caitlin didn't realize it?

An arm lands around his neck—Cisco pulls him closer.

"Tonight's the night, man."

"Who knew we'd see the day?" Hartley says, appearing at his other side.

Cisco feigns wiping at a tear. "Our little boy all grown up."

How did he know this would happen? There's no universe conceivable where his two friends wouldn't get involved, especially not after what he and Caitlin pulled on them last week. So much for keeping everything a secret.

"As futile as this may sound"—he clasps his hands together—"Can we not make this into a bigger deal than it is?"

Cisco shakes his head.

"No." He nods. "Didn't think so."

"This is a momentous occasion, Bartholomew." Cisco tightens his grip around his shoulder. "You are going out on an actual real life date with a girl you've been mooning over since Felicity left."

They halt at his locker and Cisco looks him dead in the eye. "I'ma need details. I'ma need texts. I'ma need pictures."

"Pictures?"

"Selfies or something." Cisco shrugs. "Gotta feed the beast."

"You realize you didn't actually have anything to do with me asking her out."

Cisco's face falls, and Hartley lowers his gaze, smiling to himself. He draws in a short breath, bracing for impact; he should know better than to assume Cisco hasn't been monitoring every detail of his love life—odd for a guy who has a love life of his own; his hasn't ever been interesting enough to keep tabs on.

"A whole year, Barry Allen," Cisco's voice rises, "Of longing stares and mournful sighs and anecdote after anecdote of how her fingers lingered against yours when she passed the hydrochloric acid."

He scowls. "That never happened."

So maybe, _maybe_ , he'd mooned somewhat, but never to the amounts Cisco's claiming. There'd been a few weeks after the summer, realizing Felicity wouldn't be there every day anymore, where he'd felt especially sorry for himself and might've taken that out on Cisco and Iris—he'd demanded a lot of extra attention and patience, to the point where Hartley had to pull him aside and ask him to back off his boyfriend. And then, _yes_ , he supposes his eye turned to Caitlin and their lab partnership, and he'd lost himself in his crush. _A little_.

"I have earned the right to live vicariously through you," Cisco says.

He concedes; there's no reason for him to fight Cisco on this—it's not likely to change his mind even if he were right, and Cisco does have somewhat of a point.

"And if you need either of us to bail you out—"

Hartley coughs.

" _Me_ ," Cisco corrects. "If you need _me_ to bail you out I'm a text away."

"I think I've got it covered," he says, but as he heads into Calculus and sees Caitlin wave at him from across the room, he can't help but wonder if he does. He's decided where to take her and he's semi-decided what he'll wear but other than that he's completely out of his depth. What will they talk about? What _can_ they talk about besides school and family, and—?

Oh God, what if he chokes? What if despite all his feverish fantasies the cool eloquent Barry becomes nothing more than a mumbling fool? What if fantasy turns into a nightmare where he spills his drink all over Caitlin's dress or he insults her in some way, or he falls back on his ridiculous chemistry puns as a last resort?

Or worse, what if he and Caitlin lack any sort of chemistry?

"You okay?" Caitlin catches him lost in thought after English Lit, an hour filled with nothing but his own fears swimming in front of his eyes. "You look like you're a million miles away."

"Hmm, yeah." He nods, though as he knots an arm around his shoulder he's not so sure the ground beneath his feet remains as steady as it'd seemed a few hours ago. "I'm okay."

"Are you ready?" Caitlin asks, gesturing down the hall for him to follow.

Right, he had said something about having lunch with her.

"Yeah, let's go," he says, his throat closing up little by little until he can barely breathe. He's wanted this for such a long time and he's been looking forward to tonight for three days straight, only now he's terrified he miscalculated. What if he messes up? What if he never gets another chance? What if Caitlin figures out she only ever liked him as a friend and lab partner and there's nothing more?

That shouldn't even come near to sounding like the end of the world as he knows it, but—

What if he never finds love again?

What if he's missed his chance at it?

"I'm really excited about tonight," Caitlin says, waiting in line behind him to pay for lunch. He should've probably let her skip ahead, but one of Caitlin's friends insisted on making small talk and he'd never been more grateful for the momentary reprieve. His heart's beating out of sorts and the room's spinning.

He nods, and frowns, and draws in a breath as best as he can. "Me too," he says, managing the bare minimum of a smile.

He pays for his lunch, and, seeing Caitlin linger at her friend's side for another moment, he hightails it to Cisco and Hartley's table, where he plunks down opposite Cisco, blurts out, "Can we please talk about anything but tonight I'mclosetoapanicattack," in a single breath, and waits patiently for Caitlin to join them.

He sits still as a statue.

Cisco winks. "Got your back, bro."

To Cisco's credit, he has a perfect distraction at the ready, which leaves him to wonder if there's a list somewhere out there covering all the topics one could broach with Caitlin that are certain to get a rise out of her. Apparently 'science flaws in movies' is one of those topics. How did Cisco find this out before he did?

"Laser beams are light," Caitlin says, neglecting her lunch in favor of arguing for argument's sake about flaws in the original _Star Wars_ trilogy. " _Visible light_."

"Exactly!" Cisco cheers. "So anything that visible light can pass through couldn't possibly stop them!"

"Who even comes up with invisible deflector shields?"

"Low production value," Hartley chimes in, adding one of his cocky smiles.

Caitlin laughs, while Cisco merely grants his boyfriend a scowl. They were talking about _Star Wars_ , after all, and claiming bad science as a reason to dislike the original trilogy is sacrilegious to at least two people at the table. Sadly, his current lung capacity and alarming heart rate stop him from partaking in the discussion.

Why did this have to happen today? He had three whole days to freak out and curl up in a panic and get this all out of his system. He can't let his fears stand in the way of this; he won't allow his insecurities to play him like a fiddle on one of the most exciting nights of his life.

Having Caitlin here beside him, bickering with his friends, seeing her smile and bounce in her chair and go toe-to-toe with Hartley—how could he not want that for all the days to come? How could he not at least try to preserve a friendship should their date go horribly awry? Panic or not, he needs to find some way to deal with this before tonight that doesn't involve asking his dad for a Xanax.

"Hartley's right, though," Caitlin says. "They could've gotten this right with a bare minimum of research, but they weren't willing to pay for the extra costs."

"Then again"—Cisco points—"nothing cool about invisible laser beams."

Caitlin smiles fondly. "Agreed."

"Hey," Cisco says to Caitlin, "would you mind taking a look at my research paper? I could really use some fresh eyes."

Hartley's the one who scowls now, but he couldn't be more grateful that Cisco's giving this his all—what are best friends for, if not providing cover when one is having a panic attack over dating the girl of his dreams.

"Of course." Caitlin nods, and she and Cisco grab together their things to head to the library.

Once standing, she turns to him, and smiles. "See you tonight, Barry."

Mortification sinks down into his bones and barely pushes out a, "Yeah," followed by a half-hearted wave. He's meant to take this stunning girl out tonight, this perfect picture of everything he's convinced he wants in someone, this warm and kind person, this light—what if he can't give her what Ronnie did? What if he can't offer the kind of support Ronnie had for the past two years?

How does he keep dragging Ronnie into this?

He drops his head onto the table.

"Are you okay?" Hartley asks.

He's unable to miss the genuine concern laced in the question.

"I started"—he grates his forehead against the table top—"thinking about everything that could go wrong tonight."

What's his brain even trying to accomplish? Lock his limbs with so much anxiety he'll end up cancelling? He can't do that to Caitlin or himself. He has to find some way to power through no matter what.

Lifting his head, he catches Hartley's smile, and he gets curious. He's heard Cisco's side of how his and Hartley's first date went, but that doesn't mean he got the full story. Were either of them as nervous as he feels right now?

"Did you—" he starts, lacking the courage to follow through.

"Did I have a panic attack an hour before my first ever date with another boy?" Hartley supplies, much to his surprise. "Yes, Bartholomew, I did."

He can't imagine Hartley panicked, in fact, he can't imagine Hartley so much as rattled; he's seen him uncomfortable and angry, frustrated maybe, but afraid? Not once.

According to Cisco their first date had started a little awkward, since they didn't really know anything about each other, but they'd fallen into a conversation he didn't hear the end of until three hours later, time flown by in the small space it took Cisco to fall in love. No disasters had occurred, no awkward pauses.

So if Hartley could do it, why wouldn't he?

He sits up straight. "What did you do?"

"Like I said"—Hartley grabs his bag—"Cisco made me feel like an idiot."

He frowns. How does that help him?

Hartley smiles as he gets up. "I let him."

The bell rings but he remains seated, welded in place by Hartley's words. All day he's been plagued by what ifs and all the things that could go wrong he hadn't stopped to wonder—what if things go right? What if he embraces the fact that their date will probably start off awkward, because he considers himself an awkward person, and that Caitlin trips him up and makes him speechless? She's never called him out on it before, in fact he's been called 'cute' once or twice.

He could stand to hear that again.

He lets out a slow and even breath, steadier than the ones that had gone before.

He can do this.

Of course he can do this.

.

.

An hour later he's back home and finds the perfect distraction in his homework and the SAT prep he'd planned for today. He's set to take the tests the second week of November, focusing on Level 2 Math and Chemistry, since his college major will probably require those—he may not have definitively decided on a major or a preferred college, but he knows what he'll pursue. After the SATs, a few weeks away, he can focus on scheduling interviews, writing essays, and getting letters of recommendation. He'll ask Dr Wells and Miss Morgan for a letter, with his math teacher as a back-up option, but he doubts his first two choices will turn him down.

All this college stuff was still a lot to take, but having something to focus on, something he's good at, makes it easier. He's determined to give the SATs his all, anxiety or not.

Every half hour or so he glances over his shoulder at the outfits now spread out on his bed, mentally creating new combinations. It's getting colder outside, but they'll be indoors for most of their date, so he shouldn't dress too warm. He's laid out two pairs of pants and three sweaters, two shirts and a cardigan. At least he already has a pair of shoes to wear.

"Wear the sweater grandma got you," his mom suggests unprompted over dinner—she must've seen him fuss over the outfits earlier. His grandma's present had been one of the options, but he's scared that if Caitlin comments on it he might yet blurt out his grandma buys a lot of his clothes.

Then again, he'd opted to take Hartley's advice. He's going to embrace his inner flailing.

"The red one?" his dad asks.

"I think the correct term is bordeaux," his mom says.

"I don't know why I'm making this into such a big deal." He shakes his head, digging a fork through his peas. "She won't care about what I wear."

"You want it to be perfect." His dad's eyes soften. "That's normal, son."

"And it will be." His mom reaches for his hand. "Just be yourself."

He nods, and forces down a few more bites, checking his watch for the 306th time that night.

One more hour to go.

It's a feat that he manages to find time to help his mom with the dishes, shower, brush his teeth, and comb through his hair, and still somehow chooses one sweater and one pair of pants to wear. He follows his mom's advice; he looked good in red.

By the time he arrives at Caitlin's he can breathe again, prepared to accept a fair amount of forced silences and strained small talk. He's bound to get tongue-tied sooner or later tonight—no point in denying that.

He rings the doorbell with a certain amount of confidence, running both hands down his bomber jacket.

And he'd expected about anyone to open the door but the person he comes face to face with.

"Mr. Allen," Caitlin's dad says, smiling as he waves him inside.

"Mr. Snow." He swallows hard, and steps over the threshold of Caitlin's house as if it's the first time ever he stepped foot in it. Why did he think he wouldn't see Caitlin's dad? Mr. Snow worked a lot and odd hours, but someone had to take care of Charlie while they were out.

"Christopher, please," Mr. Snow says, folding his arms over his chest.

For some reason he thought Mr. Snow would be taller than him, but he'd put him around his dad's height, a little shorter—his short-cropped hair and stubble make him seem less put together than Caitlin and Charlie combined and he can't remember if that's the impression he'd given when he'd caught the Snow family out together over the years. But that's not his place to judge; they all lost a lot.

"So you're the famous lab partner," Mr. Snow says.

It isn't the first time he got the impression Caitlin talks a lot more about him than he thinks she does, but it's still hard for him to wrap his mind around. Sure, they'd been lab partners for a long time, and yes, Caitlin loved her science classes as much as he did, and he supposed he talked about Caitlin at home too—

Maybe it's not such a stretch.

"Barry." He holds out a hand, stopping mid-air. "But you knew that."

Mr. Snow smiles, as he shimmies his hand into his back pocket.

"Awesome," he mouths.

"It's nice to see you're finally stepping up," Mr. Snow says, a bemused light in his eyes he's only seen in Caitlin's before.

 _Stepping up_? His eyes go wide, curious in what alternate dimension he would've ever been considered a romantic rival to Ronnie, or in which of those people would _want him to be_. Granted, if he looked around his current dimension he'd find a lot of people arguing that particular point with him, but last he heard Caitlin's dad liked to have his say about Caitlin's boyfriends.

And he's nowhere near reaching that status.

"Daddy, be nice," Caitlin's voice sounds behind him.

Nothing in the realm of the possible could've prepared him for the sight of Caitlin standing at the bottom of the stairs, her hands locked shyly behind her back, the red polka-dotted dress popping against the dark banners of the stairs. Her red lipstick matches the dress perfectly, as do the drop earrings.

She looks like she wandered straight out of celluloid, and—

Flowers.

He forgot the flowers.

How did he forget the flowers? He'd put them right next to the front door to make sure he wouldn't leave them and now he's here empty-handed, acting weird around Caitlin's dad. Tonight's off to a mighty great start.

Caitlin passes him.

"I left some extra sweaters in the kitchen in case you guys get cold," she tells her dad.

"Quit micromanaging your father," Mr. Snow answers. "Go have fun. And—"

"Be back before 1." Caitlin rolls her eyes, but there's a fondness behind it only parents can elicit. "I know. Call me if you need me."

"I won't," Mr. Snow says, ushering them out the door.

They shuffle out onto the front porch, alone at last, and he's struck again by the amount of oxygen he can draw into his lungs. There's no need for panic or fear, not with a date as stunning and colorful as Caitlin; he won't do her the discourtesy of ruining her night.

"Sorry about him," Caitlin says, shrugging on a light jacket.

Their outfits match perfectly.

"It's—" He breathes in deeply, exhales evenly, "—fine."

His eyes meet Caitlin's as she brushes her hair back behind her left ear, and she smiles a shy, "Hi," as if it's the first time they've ever talked, the first time they've ever been alone, or neither of them has ever admitted to liking the other. It's a Caitlin he's never seen before, and he thinks this must be it. This is why people go out on dates.

He beams. "Hi."

"You look spiffy." Caitlin's chin tilts upwards, lips setting like she's impressed.

"Thanks." He huffs a laugh. "You look—"

There's really no word for it.

"—amazing," he decides on, lacking any poetry.

Caitlin smiles bright nonetheless. "Thank you."

"I don't know where you keep finding these—" He closes his eyes for two seconds. _Embrace it_ , Barry. "Cute—dresses."

Caitlin, as he suspected, doesn't make him feel like a rake. "Thrift stores," she says, her gaze faltering as she adds, "and some of them were my mom's."

The mention of Caitlin's mom gives him pause; it's clearly not a subject they should broach if they want tonight to be fun and uplifting, so he'll avoid it as best as he can. Still, he's left to wonder how much like her mom Caitlin is—they shared the same long brown hair and the shorter stature, but he never saw Caroline Snow up-close enough to speculate about anything else. He'll quell that curiosity for now.

"I had uh—flowers," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I forgot them."

Caitlin giggles. "That's okay."

He walks Caitlin to the car, where he holds the door open for her, and waits for her to get in.

They head to Jitters, where he'd noted earlier this week they were organizing a fun trivia night, open to all ages and all kinds of teams—it'd provided him with the right inspiration for tonight.

"Trivia night?" Caitlin asks as they push through the doors of the cozy coffee shop, her eyes ticking along random spots, releasing a slow even breath.

Oh no.

"You think it's lame," he despairs, bringing a hand up to his forehead. How could he have been so stupid? Partners at trivia night? Partners they already are at school every day? He wanted to make tonight different than how they are at school and he chooses a trivia night, at Jitters of all places?

"No!" Caitlin exclaims, grabbing both hands around his right arm. "Barry, no, not at all."

He looks down at her, grounded only by her touch and the apologetic shine in her eyes.

Caitlin's lips set in a quirk. "I just don't want you to think I'm only about school."

"I don't." He blinks, drawn a step closer. "I don't want to make tonight about school. I just know you're not opposed to a little competition. And the two of us combined—"

That's how he'd reasoned it to himself, anyway. He could've taken her out to dinner, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to eat, and they couldn't exactly talk while watching a movie. Taking her to the aquariums seemed disrespectful, because it was sort of his and Felicity's thing, and he honestly thought trivia night sounded like an original idea.

"You're right." Caitlin bounces up to the tips of her toes, almost eye to eye with him, and smiles thoughtfully. "I like the sound of that. Let's show them how it's done."

A weight lifts off his chest.

He's always too quick to panic; that's what makes situations like these awkward. When is he going to realize that his ideas and his thoughts are valid things he's allowed to have? They shouldn't exclusively exist in relation to others; they're his, and they make him who he is, and who he is might just be a boy Caitlin likes.

They settle at a table for two and order two coffees, going back and forth on potential names for their team once they agree it should most definitely be a chemistry pun—it's ironic how after he'd settled on keeping the puns away from Caitlin she ends up making up her own.

"E equals MC Hammer," he says.

"An Ion Us," Caitlin says.

"The Atoms Family."

"Bunsen?"—Caitlin's eyes narrow, searching for a fitting word—"Burgers?"

He throws his head back and laughs, so loud it echoes through the entire coffee shop. It's been a long time since he's laughed like this, so hard his cheekbones hurt and he's gasping for breath—he's never breathed more freely around Caitlin.

He wipes at a tear in the corner of his eye.

"The Free Radicals," Caitlin says, holding out her hands expletively.

He smiles. "I think we have a winner."

They write down their team name on a card and pass it onto the moderator, who hands them a tablet and some writing materials they'll need. Quickly scrolling through the different categories he fears they might trip over Geography and Politics, but they should be okay with the others. He's not here to win any prizes.

Unless he counted Caitlin's heart.

"I've never done this before," Caitlin says, curling closer to him over her coffee, chin in the palm of her hand; the table isn't that big and their knees knock together, and his heartbeat rises at her proximity. In a room filled with about a dozen teams bigger than theirs it shouldn't feel like the most intimate moment he's ever shared with her, but it does. Forget prom and how he held her in his arms; they're on a date now, and there's a world of possibility ahead of them.

"Never?"

"I've competed in science fairs"—Caitlin shrugs, shying away a smile—"and my third grade spelling bee. But never anything for fun."

His eyebrows rise.

"Okay"—Caitlin rolls her eyes playfully, and laughs—"science fairs are a lot of fun."

He nods and folds his arms together on top of the table, and then, quite unexpectedly, a comfortable silence follows. Their eyes remain locked for moments upon moments, small smiles playing around both their mouths, and he might've gotten lost in Caitlin's eyes, the dark wells of her irises and the small spark in her pupils, if not for trivia night officially starting.

He secrets a smile into the palm of his hand.

Tonight will be all right. They're both here for the same reason.

Caitlin's laughing every two or three minutes and he can't help but follow suit, the excitement of participation superseding their knack for competition. Every few questions Caitlin's hand squeezes around his wrist, or she'll narrow her eyes on his face whenever an answer is on the tip of her tongue—one time she pulls him closer by the sleeve and whispers the answer to him, her breath fanning against the shell of his ear.

His body temperature rises incrementally.

As he expected, they lose points in the Geography and Politics rounds, but between his pop culture savvy, Caitlin's knowledge of common care symbols on clothing, and their combined school smarts they end up coming in second, right after a team of veterans he wouldn't be surprised to learn does this kind of thing every week.

They win four free coffees, and each a free snack of their choosing.

"That was the most fun I've had in ages!" Caitlin stumbles out of the coffee shop laughing, her arm hooked in his as they wind swaying down the sidewalk. "I can't believe neither of us knew the capital of Canada." Caitlin laughs openmouthed, the night air hit with the kind of cackle he never thought her capable of; somehow, coming from her, he thought it'd lack decorum, but it turns out to be one of the most gratifying sounds he's ever heard.

She's never acted so free around him since the day they met and it's a marvel to witness.

He's happy to hear she had as much fun as he did, despite her initial reservations. Only goes to show how much merit there is to the tried and true 'trying out new things.'

He could stand to try a lot of new things if he got to do them with Caitlin.

They find their way back to the car, but both linger beside it. It's 9:30 and neither of them has to be home for another few hours, and he can't bring himself to be the one to force the night to an end. Time has already flown by too fast. Wasn't it only a few hours ago he feared he'd talk himself out of this?

Caitlin looks up at him, her gaze soft like cotton, the lay lines of her laughter embedded in the corners of her eyes. "I don't want to go home yet," she echoes his innermost thoughts.

"We could—go for a walk by the river?" he says, impressed by his own quick improvisation.

Caitlin smiles, and nods.

The waterfront esplanade isn't too far out of their way, curving around half the bay with parks and benches, a long walkway for pedestrians and cyclists to enjoy the sights. In the dark it provides a stunning view of the city by night, lit up like a Christmas tree, rough gold streaks reflected in the water. It's quiet and calm, a handful of other people having the same idea as them and enjoying one of the few cool evenings still left.

Caitlin hooks her arm in his again, her other hand tucked near his wrist, pulled close to his body.

"Is your dad okay watching Charlie tonight?" he asks, for want of something better to talk about. He hates the thought that he exhausted all the topics, but he hadn't given this a lot of attention—he hoped to get through the date without making a fool of himself; conversation topics hadn't been at the top of his list.

"Charlie was excited." Caitlin nods. "Dad pitched the tent out in the garden and they're going to make s'mores. A real boys' night in."

"I guess he liked the camping trip this summer."

"He loved it," Caitlin says, her eyes shining as she recounts their summer camping trip one moment at a time; the free reign Charlie got to run around and get dirty; the scary stories their dad told and Charlie would curl into Caitlin's side, much like she's tucked up close to him right now; the way Charlie's face had lit up when he had his first s'more. Caitlin narrates the entire trip in such great detail and with such mirth it's hard to believe she hadn't enjoyed camping all that much.

His first camping trip with his dad had been a life-changing experience; he'd been five, and besides fishing and learning how to make a camp fire they slept beneath the stars in their sleeping bags, tracing patterns between the stars in the night sky. Later years they'd gone hiking or rock climbing, rafting—it hadn't ever been a yearly tradition, and ever since his grandpa died it reminded his dad a lot of his own camping trips out into the woods, but he missed it. Maybe he should try and convince his dad to return sometime.

"It was good for him," Caitlin says, her eyes going out of focus as she reminisces about this summer.

He doubts there's anything he could ever love about her more than the love and care she shows Charlie—her overprotectiveness showed in the way Charlie's on her mind even when he's not there, and her devotion clear as day in the secret language they seem to share. He's often questioned if it's anything like the way he and Iris feel about each other, but he can't decide if that's a thought he's allowed to have when Caitlin and Charlie are blood relatives and have lost so much.

Then again, he can't imagine life without Iris' overbearing and her nosing into his business, and he couldn't unthink her in any of his favorite memories. Maybe there's something to the saying about family you make yourself.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket.

"Cisco?" Caitlin asks, one of her eyebrows arching in question.

He frowns and takes out his phone, eyes ticking down the four messages he'd missed.

 **Cisco, 7:25pm:** Tell me when you see her!

 **Cisco, 7:31pm:** Bro...

 **Cisco, 7:54pm:** Barry!

 **Cisco, 9:45pm:** Come on, man, don't leave me hanging.

Smiling, he shakes his head, making a mental note to describe tonight in as much detail as he can muster to Cisco later, otherwise he'll never hear the end of it.

He looks at Caitlin. "How did you—?"

Caitlin shrugs with a single shoulder. "Lucky guess."

"He wants to know how it's going," he says, replacing the phone in his pocket.

"Was he worried?"

"He—" His jaw audibly pops as he purses his lips, and he scratches the back of his head while he contemplates how much he should tell her. Cisco wasn't worried at all; his best friend had been more excited than he had, if that were even possible, and rooted for the both of them. But he imagines Caitlin might already know that.

"I—" he stutters, "I've liked you—for a while now. And he's been supportive of—"

He closes his eyes and accepts it's out there now, and there's nothing he can do to take it back; he's thought about it a long time, about how it would change things, how it might change him and this years-long longing to get closer to her. Would it open up his lungs? Might it chase away his apprehension? Realign his priorities?

He registers the soft press of Caitlin's body against his side, the cute giggle that follows, and suddenly the confession doesn't weigh all that heavily. Opening his eyes he looks down at the beautiful girl sharing tonight with him, and reminds himself to embrace it all. Caitlin's known about his feelings since last May; there's no need to hide that from her.

"He's a good friend," Caitlin says.

"The best, if I'm honest."

They come to a halt at the railing overlooking a small beach—water laps at the shore, seagulls cry through the dark, a group of teenagers biking past. Caitlin releases his arm, the way her lips pull to one side telling him she's mulling over saying something.

He hides a furtive smile, waiting for Caitlin to speak.

"Can I—" Caitlin starts, body making a half turn towards him, "confess something really silly?"

"Of course," he says, and doubts anything out of her mouth could ever be silly.

"I went online earlier and looked up 'what to talk about on a first date'."

Her nose wrinkles, and she looks at him carefully from a corner of her eye, as if she fears he might make fun of her. His initial instinct isn't so much to make fun of her, as it is to question this entire panicked day. Because why would Caitlin search for topics to talk about if she wasn't worried they'd run out of things to say? Is this a trade for his own confession then?

His eyes draw down her face, back up until he finds her eyes. Had she been as nervous as him about tonight? Was he not the only one afraid things might change between them, or might go wrong, or might go incredibly right?

"I was worried we'd end up talking chemistry or physics," Caitlin says. "And I love talking science with you, but—"

He smiles. "We do that at school all the time."

"Yeah," Caitlin sighs, smiling.

"What were the topics?" he finds himself asking, because this night can't end, it should never end, not with all this promise filling every word and every breath, every smile exchanged. It's so clear Caitlin wants to be here with him as much as he wants to be here with her and that's more than he could've ever hoped for. They could be something—he's still not exactly sure what, and when, or how, but it's worth finding out.

He's so incredibly ready to explore that.

"They were really silly." Caitlin giggles, adding, "Like: are you a coffee person or tea person?"

"Coffee," he says, but doubts a topic like this could keep anyone talking for more than a few minutes, unless their date went into describing a complicated coffee order; Iris liked to order a Grande, iced, sugar-free, vanilla latte with soy milk at Starbucks for kicks, because Jitters didn't carry those kinds of pretentious drinks.

"I'm actually more of a tea person," Caitlin says, wringing her hands together as she stares out over the bay. "My grandpa used to make me these tiny cups of tea at breakfast. Every time I drink mint tea I turn into that five-year old girl again."

Caitlin smiles fondly at the memory and, staring at her profile, the lights of the city have turned her eyes into stars—he only met her a few years ago, so he can't picture her as a five-year old, but his imagination had tricked him into thinking she used to be a lot like Charlie; quiet, anticipating, more comfortable taking care of others than accepting help. Ever since they started talking more often, about Felicity and her childhood, seeing her home lined with pictures at the beach, he can't help but think he doesn't know her at all, not in the least, not even a little bit.

"Are you morning person or evening person?"

He blinks, pulled back from fantasy.

It's an impressively astounding notion; learning to know someone all over again.

"Evening," they say in unison.

"Cats or dogs?"

"Dogs," they both agree, a laugh escaping him at the ease of the exchange, any conceived awkwardness nothing they don't create themselves and have navigated expertly as the night progressed.

"This was an interesting one," Caitlin says, "if you won the lottery tomorrow, what's the first thing you'd buy?"

"A light saber," he says, giving it no thought at all. "Or the materials to make one."

Caitlin laughs openmouthed. "It's so silly."

"It's not silly." He leans his elbows down onto the railing, eyes tracing shapes in the city lights. If anything about tonight was silly it was his worry that all of this could've come tumbling down like a house of cards at the wrong word. They've enjoyed each other's company since they became lab partners, and while tonight was different, while he hoped it could be the first step towards a deeper and more intimate relationship, that company hasn't changed. "I worried about the same thing."

"I worried about Felicity too," Caitlin confesses, staring out at the city. "I know you still—"

"We're friends," he says.

Even though events before the summer made it clear they hadn't dealt entirely with their breakup, he and Felicity came to realize they weren't a couple anymore, that they might not even work as one again if they were to try—maybe geography had torn them apart, maybe they still talked like a couple, maybe he'd feel drawn to her every time Felicity came back, but their feelings for each other had changed. In some way she might always be his girl, but she's not his girlfriend anymore.

He wouldn't be here tonight if he still believed that a possibility.

"Close friends," he amends. "But nothing more."

"Barry," Caitlin says, like her thoughts remained elsewhere and she hadn't really heard his answer about Felicity; she bites at her lower lip, clearly bothered by something she hasn't voiced.

He's reminded how often his own mind connected the name 'Felicity' to 'Ronnie' and vice versa.

"Hmm?"

Caitlin turns and finds his eyes, her face half in shadow, the other marred in conflict. "Do you think I'm—cold?"

"No," he lets out without a second thought, despite the shock that travels through his limbs—who on earth would ever call Caitlin cold to her face? Who would have the balls to even hint at that, after everything she's gone through?

"Why—Why would you think that?" he asks.

Caitlin casts down her eyes. "Tony."

His blood pressure rises, seeing red for countless of seconds—that's what Tony and Caitlin were talking about this morning, what had her on edge all during class, and had him worried Ronnie might ruin his chances at this date. Tony freaking Woodward deigned it his job to manage Caitlin's life? Blood speeds through his veins and his breathing deepens, nearly brought to his knees at the sight of Caitlin turning clear as glass right in front of him, too fragile to be outside.

"It's only been three months since me and Ronnie—"

He licks along his teeth. "Tony—" he fumes, attacked by a thesaurus of words he's tempted to use right now. Tony's a lot of things; a bully, a stereotypical jock, someone to be scared of, but despite all that he's still plenty smart too—he might not use his brains as productively as he or Caitlin, but most of the time Tony knows exactly what he's doing.

Whatever choice of words Tony opted for this morning clearly left a mark.

"Tony's a caveman," he says. "He sees what he wants to see, and if he doesn't like it, he tries to hit it."

Caitlin's mouth quirks into small smile.

He reaches down and takes her hand in his. "I've never thought you were cold. Never."

If he could hold her he would, thaw out some of the insecurities frozen along her convictions—she's not cold, not by far, nor could she ever be wrong for following her heart and doing something that felt right to her, and her alone. Screw Tony, and screw her father, screw anyone who ever tries to claim they know how she feels.

He's heard that word so often in relation to Caitlin, whispered in the hallways at school, and—

"I don't understand how anyone ever could," he says, "And if anyone ever bothered getting to know you for more than half a minute they'd say the same thing."

Caitlin's eyes have glossed over with unshed tears. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

He doubts that's true.

"Yeah, well." He rolls his shoulders, self-conscious all of a sudden, but Tony's a touchy subject for him all the same. "You shouldn't listen to Tony. He's—"

"A Neanderthal."

He laughs. "Yeah."

"You're quite something, Mr. Allen," Caitlin says, wiping at a corner of her eye, her other hand remaining locked in his.

"Likewise, Dr Snow."

His thumb brushes over her knuckles, Caitlin sniffling as her eyes fall down to their hands.

After another half hour walking along the waterfront, they both decide it's time to go home—it's well before Caitlin's curfew but it's been a long and eventful night, a fun night; he hopes it's the first of many yet to come.

"I—had a really nice time," he says, standing outside of Caitlin's house, all the lights inside dimmed—Charlie and their dad are probably out in the garden. He vividly imagines Caitlin changing into sweats or PJs and joining her family outside around the campfire. Not too long ago that would've been a difficult thing for him to picture.

"I think we should do it again," Caitlin says.

His eyes trip to hers in between two beats of his heart. "You'd—"

 _Deep breaths,_ Barry.

"You'd want that."

"I would," Caitlin laughs and faces away shyly, like she had a few times before now, but it's still new and marvelous.

He laughs because she does, but he's never been more serious about anything when he answers, "I'd like that."

There's an endless list of firsts he longs to cross off with Caitlin by his side, each one of them kosher to a tee; a kiss or further intimacy lived only in his wildest dreams—anything real he ever imagined came soft and slow, something calm at the center of a storm, warm and delightful, and—

Caitlin inches closer and rises on her toes, stealing a quick short kiss right off his lips—it's over before he can press back, before he can lean in and bump their mouths together clumsily. It's something whimsical and delightful that pins itself at the heart of him, over before it really started, but it lingers underneath his skin.

Like a tattoo only he knows is there.

"I'll see you at school," Caitlin says, starting the short walk up to the house.

"Y—" His breath hitches at the back of his throat, while his heart flits in a zigzag path behind her, no longer entirely his, "—eah."

Caitlin glances back one time and waves, before she disappears through the front door, and he's left to question which way is up and which is down. Did that really just happen? Had Caitlin kissed him, short and sweet, and told him she wanted to go out with him again?

Did that—

Did that mean they were now officially _dating_? What's the rulebook on these things?

He huffs, and scratches the back of his head, toeing back to the car—he won't be able to sleep a wink tonight; if he thought his limbs energized before they're positively burning now, with every promise of the future, every date to come, every kiss he might actually reciprocate next time. _Caitlin likes him_. She likes being around him and talking to him and doesn't mind when he trips over his words.

Driving home his mind's a haze of thoughts he can't unravel, and he's lucky no one's out this late or he'd likely get into an accident. Once home, his phone's Wi-Fi connects automatically, his phone buzzing with a few emails at once.

He notices Cisco didn't attempt to contact him again after his initial few texts, so he'll no doubt hear from him tomorrow, but finds an email from Felicity instead. He pauses in the doorway to his bedroom, eyes quickly scanning the short and concise message; while innocent and upbeat, Felicity's words leave him with a pit in his stomach the memory of Caitlin's lips fails to squash.

.

 _ **from:** hackergrl67_

 _ **to:** barry allen_

 _ **subject:** Say what, now?_

 _You sneaky sneaker! Did you really think you could go out with one of my former new oldest best friends and not tell me? I expect a full report!_

 _F._

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	10. Chapter 10

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter ten

.

.

Birds chirp outside his window, alarm clock coaxing him from a deep sleep plagued with a strange dream of a two-faced girl he failed to identify as anyone he knew—though in hindsight it's not hard to figure out which two had featured in his dreams; Caitlin and Felicity. Why his brain subconsciously blended them together into the same girl was a question for later, or maybe a psychoanalyst.

Because what did his subconscious matter?

He stretches out long in the bed and rolls over onto his stomach, shimmies both his arms underneath his pillow and buries his beaming smile in the dark blue cotton. Did last night even happen? Had he gone out on a date with Caitlin and have the time of his life? Had her lips touched his in a small peck? Had that kiss not truly overshadowed his dreams?

What a difference a day could make.

Last time he felt like this—he'd started dating Felicity.

Dread swoops down his stomach, in stark contrast to the euphoria turning him light as a feather. More and more it dawns on him he might need to make a choice; a friendship with his ex-girlfriend, or a relationship with Caitlin. Is he prepared to lose either? Felicity's been in his life for so long; after Iris she might be the only girl he's truly comfortable around. They can talk about anything, even their breakup, without it being awkward or weird or impossible to conceive they could remain friends. He likes to think they could make that work well beyond high school, or even after college. Felicity isn't the kind of person anyone would wish gone from their lives.

But what about Caitlin? How can he conceivably walk away from something so brand-new unfolding between them? He and Caitlin have barely scratched the surface of everything they could become and he can't throw that aside when his head and his heart scream to grab this opportunity with both hands—this time he doesn't have Iris to push him into things and he's vowed to be brave this time. He shouldn't rely solely on his best friend to help him out of a tough situation.

He wants this thing with Caitlin, but can't imagine life without Felicity.

Would he be selfish trying to hold on to both?

"Late night?" his dad asks at breakfast.

"You were home early," his mom cuts in, placing two steaming cups of coffee between him and his dad, her own still waiting on the kitchen counter.

A yawn cracks his jaw. "Short night," he says, though that could mean the same thing. "I didn't get much sleep."

"Too wired?" his mom asks.

He huffs a laugh, his eyes tracking the steam playing over his favorite Superman mug, imagining a five-year old Caitlin with pigtails, lips curling precociously around the rim of a small mug of tea, taking small sips to make sure she didn't burn her tongue.

His dad winks. "Too infatuated, more like."

He shares a smile with his mom as she sits down at the table, but his parents don't interrogate him any further; they know that if he needs to talk he will, otherwise they don't meddle in his love life.

In truth, Felicity's email had kept him up and haunted him more than Caitlin's fleeting kiss lifted his spirits—it might've been concise and it might've not even said much, but the lack of his name in the email, and the curt 'F.' at the end rather than the usual 'Hot Ex' send-off worried him more than he cared to admit. He'd accepted his and Felicity's paths had diverged, that they'd both moved on in separate cities in different schools with new friends, but that didn't mean he meant to alienate her.

He wasn't the only one. Caitlin, too, had admitted she worried about Felicity; at the time he'd taken that to mean his close friendship with his ex, maybe even potential feelings that might still be there, but what if Caitlin worried about the ramifications of them dating? Caitlin was trying to build a friendship with Felicity all the same.

Would Felicity be jealous if they started a more intimate relationship?

He doesn't want to lose Felicity. He doesn't want Caitlin to lose Felicity, not when they'd started mending a friendship that had frayed over the years.

Was this his fault, or another case of him blowing things out of proportion?

After breakfast he heads back upstairs, and types out a lengthy email to Cisco to make up for ignoring him yesterday—knowing Cisco he'll probably forgive him given the circumstances, but he covers all his bases to be safe; he uses colorful adverbs and adjectives to paint a perfect picture of the night, though Cisco will undoubtedly interrogate him at school too.

As for Felicity, he shoots her back a short email, which takes a full thirty minutes to type up.

.

 **from:** barry allen

 **to:** hackergrl67

 **subject:** RE: Say what, now?

Hey Fee,

I'm sorry if you feel like I went behind your back with Caitlin. It all happened really fast and I wasn't sure if it was something you'd want to know.

Skype? Later this week?

Love,

Barry

.

He reads and rereads the message seven times before he hits 'send' and still regrets it. Why did this have to be so hard? He'd discarded any notions of rekindling his romance with Felicity before the summer—their geography didn't allow it, and they were both too needy to start something long-distance. To top that off they still weren't on the same page on one of the biggest points of contention in their relationship: college. He might have a lot more figured out now than he had back then, but a lot of his path still lay wrought with uncertainty.

Schoolwise the SATs were the most important item on his list right now—other things had to wait, or his head might explode.

His phone starts buzzing half circles on his desk, Caitlin's name flashing on the screen.

"Caitlin," he answers, a sudden imprint of Caitlin's lips tangible along his and the vivid memory of her shy smile playing in front of his eyes, "Hey."

"Hey, Barry"—the sound of a smile sounds over the line, one so endearing it starts his heart racing—"I was wondering if you'd like to come over today?"

Over? Over where? _Over there_? What for?

"To—my house?" Caitlin says when the line remains silent on his end. "I have some chores to do, but I thought maybe you'd like to—"

It's clear from the way Caitlin's voice trails off she's not sure what's mean to happen either, or what she hoped to accomplish by inviting him over, but he'd be happy just being around her—they don't even have to talk if she's busy. What could be more rewarding than spending time with Caitlin in comfortable silence?

"No, yeah. I'd love to." He shoots up from his chair, ready to break out into a sprint at a moment's notice. "I can be there in half an hour?"

"Sounds great," Caitlin breathes gratefully. "And Barry?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget your flowers."

He laughs, and notices the prolonged moment of silence at the other end, Caitlin listening to his laughter before the line goes dead. His mom had put the flowers in a vase in the kitchen so they wouldn't spoil, but they're easily snatched back up.

What else should he take? Should he take anything when all he's planning to do is watch Caitlin, something he's perfected to an art over the past two years? Maybe it's best he pack a book or two; he'd planned more SAT prep for today and if Caitlin were to find out he forwent it to moon after her she'd kick his ass. Or at least yell at him.

"I'm—heading to Cait's, if that's okay," he tells his parents; his dad's packing his things together to head to work, and his mom's expecting friends over to plan the next huge charity drive for the hospital. He'd get in the way, if he stayed.

"Of course." His mom smiles. "Have a good time."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," his dad says.

"You know"—he grimaces—"other kids' dads aren't nearly as embarrassing as you are."

His dad fixes him with a hard stare. "That's a lie, son."

Yes, he thinks, every kid probably considers their parents embarrassing beyond belief, and despite the dread that sets in his bones over what else his mom or dad could pull over his love life, he laughs, because if he doesn't laugh he might cry. Honestly, how will he ever bring Caitlin over when he knows these two are waiting behind the door? They'd embarrassed him plenty in front of Felicity and he doubts that'll change. At least Caitlin's dad had seemed rational, though there might be other reasons at the root of that.

Twenty minutes later he rings the bell next to Caitlin's front door, and he's soon greeted by her angel face—drowning in another sweater much too big for her, Caitlin seems to have slept about as much as he had, if the lines around her eyes are any indication. She looks beautiful nonetheless.

"Barry Allen, gentleman caller." She sighs dreamily, moving aside. "Come in."

He steps inside and hands her a bouquet of daisies; the florist told him daisies symbolized gentleness and loyal love, but all he'd seen at the time was a flower crown in a young Caitlin's hair, like in one of the pictures far across the room on the mantel piece—the symbolism had been a bonus.

"These are beautiful." Caitlin smiles, taking hold of the bouquet and making her way to the back of the house. He follows in her footsteps, not sure if he's meant to, but Caitlin makes nothing of it. In the kitchen she grabs a vase from underneath the sink and fills it with water, carefully cutting the ribbon around the flowers so they fan out beautifully.

"I have to finish some chores." Caitlin turns around, crossing her arms over her chest and fixing him with a hard stare. "I hope you brought your SAT prep."

He grins. "You'd make a great teacher too, you know," he says, unearthing his books from his backpack. Some of Caitlin's schoolbooks lie in a small pile on the kitchen table as well.

"A scary one, you mean."

"Those are your words"—he settles at the kitchen table, afraid he might lose points if he doesn't get started right away—"not mine."

Caitlin smiles, and starts on her chores; she unearths a hamper from an adjacent utility room, or laundry room, he can't be sure, and disappears upstairs. For a moment or two he sits dumbfounded; why did she invite him over if she has things to do around the house? Won't he be in the way? He doesn't mind the time he gets to spend with her, but they've been on one date, a few study dates, and he doesn't want to be one of those guys who's always over at a girl's house to get in her good graces. That's how cavemen invented the 'friend zone.'

He rubs at his brow; he's overthinking things again. Caitlin's the one who invited him. He may have jumped at the bit, but he wasn't imposing, and he might even be here as something more than a friend.

Caitlin returns with a hamper brimming with laundry, bed linens and clothes, and shimmies into the laundry room. He hears the telltale click of the washer and detergent being poured in, followed by the rumbling sound of it coming to life.

"You know, if you need a hand," he calls, "I'd be happy to help."

"If 3x – y equals 12, what's the value of 8x over 2y?" Caitlin retorts, not missing a single beat.

"Uh—"

Blinking, he's acutely aware he knows the answer—he's absolutely positively certain he does, but the equation swims in front of his eyes and the numbers disconnect, losing all coherency.

Caitlin's hand lands gently on his right shoulder, slipping along the back of his neck to his left, where she squeezes. "I'm fine," she says, and sits down opposite him at the table. "I have a system."

His eyes follow her hands as she opens her French book and a notepad, and he wishes he had a system for more things in his life—no one would ever consider him lazy or neglectful of his chores, but he's been known to start on them last minute, or forget like his dad. For Caitlin procrastination never seems to be a problem, or maybe it stopped being an option when her mom died. He can't imagine Caitlin as a disorganized person, but circumstances undoubtedly fuelled a lot of her productivity.

Caitlin sets her familiar timer for forty minutes from now, and she starts her homework, while he can't help but look at her every few minutes or so. Her brow's set in concentration as she scribbles out one French sentence after the other, and it's like he's not even there, or they're in the library at school. Caitlin has her system and she sticks to it, so why would she risk a cog by inviting him over?

Maybe she wanted some company, someone around while she did her chores and her homework. He hadn't stopped to think where Charlie or her dad were, too focused on being around Caitlin, but the house is remarkably silent. Were they alone?

An unwanted thought drifts to the surface in the midst of two math equations.

Did Ronnie used to come over to keep Caitlin company while her dad and brother were out? Had Ronnie been such a fixture in this house Caitlin sought to replace him? He doesn't want to be a stand-in for one of Caitlin's exes, or a temporary patch while she gets used to the idea that Ronnie won't be there every moment of every day anymore.

Caitlin's phone alarm buzzes.

She gets up and heads towards the sink, opening the dishwasher to start clearing it.

Unlike before his eyes don't follow her around the kitchen; he can't bring himself to study her from afar, the lines of her body, the swish of her hair as she bends down and stands up again—he keeps his eyes fixed on his books, leafing through them aimlessly. What is it about Ronnie he can't seem to shake? Why is he blaming Caitlin for the same things Tony does? So what if she moved on after three months; what's wrong with that? Ronnie and Caitlin weren't him and Felicity, nor were either of them anything like him. He had a harder time letting go—maybe Caitlin simply isn't wired that way.

He has to stop putting himself down like this, or compare his relationship with Caitlin with what he had with Felicity, or think of Ronnie as a rival. Caitlin wanted his company, and he'd long since realized she made choices she stuck by.

Caitlin finishes with the dishwasher, pulling the bag out of the trashcan next.

"At least let me take out the trash," he says, meeting her halfway on her way to the backdoor.

Caitlin contemplates his offer for a moment or two.

"The value cannot be determined from the information given," he promptly answers Caitlin's previous math question, earning him a triumphant smile.

It's a feat he managed to solve anything at all today—if he doesn't find some way to account for Caitlin's continued presence in his life he won't make it to college, and he'd rather not have to give up on either of those dreams. He wants Caitlin in his life as often and as permanent as possible, but his schoolwork can't suffer. Caitlin would probably break up with him before she lets that happen.

He ties off the bag with Caitlin's help and carries it outside, depositing it in a bigger container by the side of the house.

In the driveway, he hears a car pulling up, and by the time he's made his way back inside, Caitlin's dad comes in carrying two large bags of groceries. He nearly stands to attention and salutes at the sight of him.

"At ease, Barry," Mr. Snow says, dumping the groceries on the kitchen counter.

"Mr. Snow," he says uselessly.

"I trust my daughter has put you to good use."

He nods. "That, and—" He points at the kitchen table, half of it covered with his books.

Caitlin scowls at both of them. "Barry's taking the SATs in November. He has to study."

"Study." Mr. Snow kisses Caitlin's cheek. "Not die trying."

Caitlin giggles.

" _Flashhhh_." Charlie whooshes into the kitchen in a red shirt adorned with The Flash symbol, running circles around Caitlin and his dad. Judging by the brown smears around his mouth he's been eating chocolate.

"Barry, look!" Charlie squeals, and runs over to him to start circles around his legs. "I'm the Flash!"

"No more sugar for him today," Mr. Snow tells Caitlin.

"Okay," Caitlin whispers, smiling down fondly at her speedster brother.

"Come on, Scarlet Speedster," Mr. Snow says, holding his arms open for Charlie—the little boy rushes over and jumps right before reaching his dad's arms, an action they've clearly practiced many times before, as Mr. Snow catches him effortlessly. "Let's see if we can't get you cleaned up first."

The two of them disappear somewhere upstairs, leaving him alone with Caitlin again, who starts putting some of the groceries away. Studying the lines of her body, the swish of her hair along her forehead, he can't account for his presence. Why did Caitlin insist on having him here?

"You're amazing, you know that?" slips out unintentionally.

"Stop." Caitlin shakes her head, but her vehement rejection of the compliment tempts him a step closer, even with her dad now in the house. How can he tell her in so many words that he thinks the world of her? That sometimes there's so little he understands about her it makes him want to be better? How did she go from a regular teenage girl to this soft and tender caregiver? How does she balance everything and not lose it every once in a while?

"You are," he insists, taking another step closer until he's by her side and he can smell her perfume. "I don't know how you do it. Juggle all this, and school?"

Caitlin looks at him sideways.

"I'm serious," he says. "You must have superpowers or something."

And then something happens in the space between them he never thought he'd be the first to pick up on—his eyes draw down to her lips before they find her hazel eyes again, and he leans in, gauging Caitlin's reaction. Should he? Could he? Caitlin's eyes follow the same sweeping motion as her lips part, and they draw together like opposing poles.

His breathing deepens as his eyes fall shut, and there's a short caress of their lips before his close over hers—the world fades around him, a rainbow behind his eyelids, Caitlin's perfume and skin and the little sigh at the back of her throat enough to overwhelm him. How did he ever get so lucky?

"Daddy!" Charlie squeals somewhere upstairs and he jerks back as if electrified, knocking over a box of cereal Caitlin hadn't yet stored away. They shouldn't be doing this with Charlie and Mr. Snow in the house. He's hardly been here before; he should be on his best behavior, not sneaking around. Is it sneaking around, though, when they're not even trying to hide? _Should_ they be trying to hide?

"Barry, relax," Caitlin breathes, amused by his clumsiness, and touches the side of his face.

"We shouldn't—" He sighs, and draws a step back. "I don't want to mess this up."

Caitlin thinks for a moment, and asks, "By being yourself?", even though their conversation doesn't logically trace to that line of questioning. Still, there it is, his biggest insecurity. What could Caitlin possibly see in him?

He shrugs. "Maybe?"

Caitlin smiles sympathetically, reconquering the step he'd taken back. "The whole point of us dating should be getting to know each other," she says. "I want to get to know the real Barry."

Even if that's the him who says all the wrong things, he wonders, even if he turns out to be boring and uninspired, disorganized, her polar opposite? This is about as normal as it gets for him—sitting at the kitchen table with his homework, staving off doing his chores, playing videogames, watching a movie. What possible interest could that hold for her?

"This is all new to me." He tracks back towards the table and sits down. "I got used to—"

He got used to pining, that's what, and it seems like a tough habit to kick. Who is he if not tucked in some corner watching Caitlin from afar? What does he do with all the time he'd usually spend mooning over her?

Passing that time with her should sound a lot more alluring than wasting it away on his own.

Caitlin sits down opposite him again, reaching for one of his hands and pulling it halfway across the table to play with his fingers. His lips part, remembering the feel of Caitlin's along them.

"Got used to what?" Caitlin asks.

"Liking you from a distance?"

Caitlin feigns pulling her hand back, but he catches her fingers, laughing, "Though I admit this is a lot more fun."

He runs a thumb down her ring finger.

They share a smile over their locked hands. There's a lot he has to figure out, both for himself and towards Caitlin, and a lot they have to figure out together. But he supposes there'd be no point in inviting him over if Caitlin wasn't at least willing to commit to the same.

He pulls his hand back when Mr. Snow enters the kitchen.

"I'm off to work," Caitlin's dad says. "I'll be home for dinner."

"Spah-getti!" Charlie cheers, rushing past his dad towards his sister.

"We'll see," Caitlin says, hoisting Charlie—crayons and all—into her lap.

Mr. Snow kisses the top of Charlie's head and Caitlin's cheek, patting his shoulder as he passes, and leaves out the backdoor. He wonders if Caitlin considers her dad embarrassing the way he does his own father, because so far Christopher Snow has been pretty cool, and he's the one embarrassing himself.

Charlie moves to a third chair in between him and Caitlin, and they clear some of the table so Charlie can draw while they finish the homework they'd planned to do. This time around he does get all the work done, spurned by Caitlin's request to be himself—if he were home right now, or studying with her in the library, he'd get the work done too. That doesn't need to change because they're dating now.

In all he's at Caitlin's for six hours, give or take—they have BLTs for lunch and after Caitlin gives him a few math problems to mull over he plays with Charlie, which mostly entails him running after the toddler. Charlie pretends to be The Flash, while he's forced to play the villain, defeated each and every time by the Fastest Boy Alive.

Eventually, around snack time, even Charlie's batteries run low, and he thinks it's best he heads home. He has some chores of his own to finish before dinner, and he'd rather not do them under the prying eyes of either his parents.

Caitlin hooks an index finger around one of his pinkies, leading him to the front door.

"Thanks for coming over today," she says. "You made my boring Saturday a lot more interesting."

"Any time."

Lingering in the doorway, their fingers still hooked together, it's Caitlin who takes the initiative now—she touches a hand to his face and rises on her toes, gently pushing her lips to his; they're soft like he'd imagined, pillowed against his, and more demanding than he could have guessed. He sighs gratefully and nips at her bottom lip careful and chaste, afraid to take too much too fast.

He shouldn't want to rush into this, whatever it is, rather take his time enjoying every second.

"See?" Caitlin whispers, words she's spoken to him before—prom, if he recalls correctly, and he'd wondered what they would look like as a couple. Would they be quick to touch, quicker with a kiss? Or would they wait it out, savor the moment, to share kisses in secret later?

Maybe now he'll find out.

Like then, he chuckles and glances at his feet, as if the motion might transport them back to that night.

"Nothing to it," he says, wondering if it had been a simpler time.

.

.

A steaming hot cup of instant ramen noodle soup simmers right next to his laptop, cooling down for him to eat in between his History, AP Physics and English Lit homework. After their traditional Sunday family breakfast his parents both left for a friend's retirement party and left him to his own devices, which suited him fine. He expects Dr Wells to surprise the class with a pop quiz sometime this week and he'd rather not be caught unaware; and if Mr. Hewitt truly plans on assigning more essays this year he should get a head start on some of his reading too.

First things first, though, he hasn't had a face-to-face with Iris in almost two weeks and he's going through withdrawals; two weeks proved too long to go without his best friend's voice or advice, her beaming enthusiasm, even though college seems to be taking something of a toll. He lets Iris get it all out; how her and Eddie are making it work one small step at a time, but it's fun and Eddie's charming and he's all she's ever wanted; her classes and professors with impossible deadlines; the amazing chats she has with her roommate Linda and how they've gone out together several times now, resulting in severe lack of sleep.

"One time, I swear I fell asleep during my Multimedia lab," Iris says, sipping from a large mug undoubtedly filled with strong coffee.

"You're alright though, yeah?"

"Mhmm"—Iris nods, humming around a mouthful of coffee—"Yeah! College is so much fun, Barr. I've never worked harder in my life but it's really worth it."

He smiles at that, at the circles under Iris' eyes matched only by the twinkle around her pupils, at the small bounce up and down she does in her chair, clearly visible on the computer screen, and the passion she never fails to ignite in him—of course he wants that just as bad, a great college experience, even with any potential ups and downs; a girlfriend who's charming and everything he's ever wanted; a roommate he gets along with.

If only he could picture it.

"Your turn." Iris sits up straight, making a show of putting her mug aside, licking her lips, and resting her chin on a closed fist, all ears. "Tell me about your date— _dates!_ "—Iris giggles excitedly—"with Caitlin. Spare me no gory details."

He shrugs, arms crossed on top of his desk while his feet tap out a nervous rhythm. "No gore."

If he couldn't shake Felicity short email yesterday it's Caitlin's lips he fails to clear from his mind now, the way they moved around her smile lodged in the spaces between his ribs, the way they'd moved against his imprints of a future he wishes he could fast forward to.

"We had a really great night _and_ a great day together."

Iris' eyes narrow. "But?"

"No 'but'. She's great."

"You know you can't get anything by me, Barry Allen," Iris' voice lowers, and with it any defense he might've had against her prying concerns. Because there are things bothering him, and locking them up will only allow them to stew until they simmer and burn inside his chest like a raging infection—the way Ronnie's already set below his skin.

"I'm—" He rubs at the back of his neck. "I'm the same awkward around her I've always been."

Why did relationships have to start with this awkward in-between, this unsteady ground beneath his feet, mud he and Caitlin first have to wade through before he could start feeling completely comfortable around her? The moments he does are sparse and too few and suddenly, for some reason, he can't recall if it was ever like this with Felicity.

He wants it so bad, and maybe that's too fast, but he wants it all the same. He's never been able to distinguish between the terms 'selfish' and 'selfless' very clearly.

"I'm worse," he says, unable to meet his best friend's eyes.

"New relationships are always awkward."

He nods, mostly to himself, reminded of how mismatched he and Felicity started out, two flailing fifteen-year-olds who barely knew what they were getting themselves into—he and Caitlin aren't anything like that.

"Think about it," Iris says, waiting patiently for her words to sink in, for him to look up, and listen attentively. This is why he'd called her, after all, for some sound advice that might _control alt delete_ the browsing history of his muddled memory.

"Instead of 'do you want to go out with me' it might as well be 'would you like to see if we're romantically compatible over the course of a forced vetting process'."

He laughs at that, because it's true; he's at his best behavior around Mr. Snow and it's Caitlin he means to impress. At least he and Caitlin had something going for them—things were awkward but they aren't forced.

" _Dating is cruel_ ," Iris presses. "It's what comes after that's worth it."

"Yeah?" A bemused smile plays around his lips—Iris is the smartest person he knows, the kindest, the sweetest, but he never knew her to be this sentimental before she met Eddie. Only goes to show what love can do to a person. "And what's that?"

Iris smiles and cocks an eyebrow. "That might be love."

Love? Is that what he's chasing, this big thing he's trying to breathe around—love? A crush seemed safer to admit to, even if he'd felt gravity grab hold of him many times and haul him heart-first in Caitlin's direction.

He had a crush on Caitlin.

But is he in love with her?

Maybe somewhere along the way he'd decided this could never be—having a crush on Caitlin was never anything more than protecting his heart against another potential heartbreak, another loss like the one he suffered when Felicity left. But now it's all within reach; Caitlin and college, things he wants, things Felicity hoped he'd want, and—it's a lot. All of it.

"I can't wait to see you," he breathes—homecoming's in four weeks, and it often sees the return of many seniors. Joe made Iris promise to visit whenever she could, he'd even pay for her flight, and he for one can't wait to see his best friend in person again.

Iris shakes her head. "How do you manage without me?"

"I don't," he scoffs.

"Hey"—Iris leans closer to the screen, and if she were here she'd throw her arms around him and squeeze him tight—"Relax and stop worrying so much."

Easier said than done, he thinks, because his brain has been whirring worries around for months, and not only about Caitlin. He gets what Iris is saying; as much as he can worry about college and big decisions and even Caitlin, dating shouldn't be cause for distress. He should enjoy every moment he gets with Caitlin, rather than doubt his every move.

They like each other; that should be enough right now. And yet there's the word 'Ronnie' and phrases like 'good enough', or painful questions like 'what if they don't work out?' locking him in a train of thought he hasn't been able to escape for a while now.

"Don't stake everything on Caitlin being The One," Iris says.

His eyes find Iris' again. Is that what he's doing? Is he so painstakingly holding on to the hope that they'll work out that it'll slip through his fingers like grains of sand? He's already scared of losing her without really— _having_ _her_?

"But let her be Someone," Iris adds. "Someone good."

Iris' words prove nothing more than a band-aid, beautiful in their sentiment they should be enough to convince him to let it all go—his worries, his fears, this sense that he'll undo his own longings and ruin a good thing before it's started—but unlike any other time, the smile that follows is for show only.

"Everything else will fall into place."

Iris fails to calm him down.

What if everything falling into place looks a whole lot more like everything falling apart?

.

.

That Monday, right after his alarm clock goes off, he turns on his back and falls asleep again—behind his eyelids he dreams about long school hallways, the quick rap of footsteps behind him but every time he turns around he merely catches sights of a delicate ankle, the swish of a skirt, or the swivel of hair flitting around the corner. Cisco and Hartley flank him and ask him what he's looking at, and he manages, "My girlfriend," which makes his friends burst out in jeers.

"Your girlfriend!" Cisco guffaws, slapping at his back. "Good one, Barry!"

"No one catches cold around here, Bartholomew," Hartley says evenly, his glasses making his eyes appear black.

He shoots up straight in bed, his rampant panic in tune with his mother's, "Barry! Wake up, you're going to be late!" and he can barely catch a breath before he's rushing to get ready, just like old times. His fears have once again slowed him down and continue to steal sleep, invading his conscious mind with thoughts he'd rather not have.

Ever since dating Felicity he knows what it's like to be in love, to share a relationship with someone who's fun and quirky and perfect for him; he learned the pitfalls and difficulties of that same relationship too and he can't help but think—Is Caitlin perfect for him? Or is she so far out of his league he should quit while he's ahead?

Or worse, is he even slightly a match for Caitlin? She could choose anyone she wants, and she chose her lab partner?

Borrowing his mom's car he makes it to school with a few minutes to spare, and finds Caitlin waiting for him outside. The sight of her gives him pause, slows him down, and makes this pit in his stomach that bit easier to breathe around. She's been waiting for him for God knows how long—and why? Why would she risk her perfect attendance record?

"Hey, you," she says, pushing up on her toes once before landing back on her heels.

He smiles. "Hey."

"What happened to your winning streak?"

"My—winning streak?"

"You were ten minutes early every day last week," Caitlin says. "I was starting to believe you'd broken the habit of being late."

He never knew she kept that close an eye. "Guess it's tougher to kick than I thought."

They head for the entrance side by side, Caitlin whimsically lacing the fingers of her left hand between the fingers of his right.

And he hesitates for just a moment too long outside the doors.

"What's wrong?"

He stares down at their locked hands, then inside through the windows and everything waiting for them there—Caitlin's friends, his friends, teachers, the entire student body, they'd all see them walk in as a couple. Is he ready to face the consequences of that?

"Maybe we should—keep this between us for a while?" he asks, afraid to meet Caitlin's eye.

"Why?"

He swallows hard, too embarrassed to admit it. In situations like these he's meant to be The Guy™, because that's how it works out in the wild—he's not meant to show weakness, let alone fear, in front of a girl he's trying to win over.

"Tony," he confesses nonetheless. Lying doesn't seem like the way to go either.

Caitlin's nostrils flare, her lips pressing together in a manner unbecoming her. Clearly this is a sensitive subject for her too.

"Tony needs to learn that I'm not Ronnie's property," she says.

But that's not what he meant; he doesn't mean to give Tony's accusations about her being cold in the wake of her break-up any credence, he'd never do that—this is about him and his own history with Tony, the bruised arms but even more so the fear of a misstep, of looking at Tony the wrong way and setting him off. It's the same fear paralyzing him right now.

"You're really worried," Caitlin realizes.

"He used to"—he breathes in deeply—"beat me up pretty bad in grade school."

"Barry," Caitlin breathes, undisguised shock in her voice, "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"It's okay." He shrugs. "I don't like talking about it."

"It can be our secret?" Caitlin says, and attempts to draw her hand back—much like Saturday though, even though she'd been teasing then, he can't seem to let her go. Why would he, when this is what he wants? He wouldn't entertain the notion of secrecy if it weren't for Tony, and he has no one else to worry about. Who would stand in their way, if they pursued this wherever it might take them?

He meets her eye. "No," he says softly, "I don't want to hide."

Caitlin's smile shifts into something softer, a gentle understanding passing between them; they like each other, so screw Tony, screw the memory of Ronnie. Screw anyone who tries telling them how to do this. She skips a step closer and pushes a warm kiss to his lips, one that lasts countless of seconds before either of them even thinks about moving back.

"Don't try and pretend, Allen"—Caitlin muses, her smile too big to contain as she drags him with her through the doors and down the hallway—"You just want to get kissed some more."

He laughs as their locked hands dangle between them. There's no point pretending; he definitely wants to get kissed some more, and dote out plenty of kisses of his own, hugs and cuddles and maybe even more intimate things—he's in such a rush it all threatens to flash by him in the blink of an eye.

They make their way to his locker, where Cisco and Hartley are already waiting for them. Tony's nowhere to be seen, and no one else takes any particular note of them. What was he worried about?

"Hey, guys," Caitlin greets, releasing his hand so he can shuffle some of his books around in his locker.

"Hey," Hartley says, without glancing up from the book he's reading.

Cisco's face, in the mean time, breaks out into an enormous smile. "Hey, you two," he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows. "How are you doing?"

Caitlin's eyes skip to him briefly while his lock with his best friend's. There is no way in hell Cisco is about to make this worse for him; no way is his best friend about to ask about their date, or this Saturday, or any other juicy detail, _in front of Caitlin_. Honestly, doesn't Cisco have more tact than that?

"Hey, Caitlin," Hartley interjects, done with his book all of a sudden, "can I pick your brain about Baudelaire for a moment?"

Caitlin skips a step ahead, nodding, "Of course," while Hartley winks at him over his shoulder.

A knot unspools somewhere below his sternum. How have the past few months made Hartley an ally? Had Cisco's role in his life shifted to Iris' previous one, pushing him into situations he'd usually run from?

"Dude, _cut it out_ ," he hisses the moment Caitlin and Hartley disappear inside the lab and he's certain Cisco will be the only one to hear it.

"What?"

" _Your face_." He gestures wildly at the smile set permanently in the corners of Cisco's mouth. "Things are weird enough, I don't need you to make it worse."

"Hold up"—Cisco slaps the back of his hand against his chest, bringing them both to a halt right outside the lab—"Why's it weird? I thought your date went fine."

"It did." He sighs. "It's just—weird, you know. I don't know how serious she is about this, and I'm—"

He's still freaking out. No matter how many times he repeats it, _Caitlin likes him_ , or how often he replays the comfortable silences and the conversations they shared, Caitlin's and Iris' insistence that he relax have served to make him more anxious. What if he messes up? What if he says the wrong thing about Caitlin's mom, or his mom, and she disappears in front of his eyes like he erased her from his timeline?

What if he does every possible thing right, but he's simply _not good enough_? What if he doesn't measure up to every amazing thing Caitlin already is, has yet to accomplish, has well within her reach?

"Don't doubt yourself, man," Cisco says.

"I don't know if you've noticed"—he grimaces—"but I'm really good at that."

"Caitlin likes you, dude," Cisco insists. "She went out with you. She invited you to her house. You owe it to yourself to explore this. Like I did with Hartley."

"You freaked out too?" he asks, in search for any straw to grab at. Maybe he should take Iris' words to heart, maybe it was like this for everyone—maybe Caitlin was freaking out too in her own subtle unreadable way. _Maybe it isn't just him_. If the idea of dating Cisco could scare Hartley senseless and exploring a relationship with Hartley made Cisco doubt himself, maybe there's hope for him yet.

Somewhere. In some parallel universe?

"Bro, it's Hartley."

He laughs.

"Mr. Ramon. Mr. Allen." Dr Wells wheels into the hallway, quickly reminding them they have an actual class to attend. "Why don't you join us?"

Without sparing each other another glance, he and Cisco hurry inside, where he settles down next to Caitlin.

"Everything okay?" she asks, and—is that a hint of worry he sees mirrored in her eyes?

He smiles, hoping to reassure her. "Yeah."

As expected, Dr Wells surprises quite a few by announcing a pop quiz, but the overlarge portion of them doesn't freak out—most of them have known Dr Wells long enough to expect these every now and then. They're meant to revise the materials before every following class, though he has to admit even he has trouble holding to that every single time.

To his left, Caitlin sighs.

He glances at her, and his eyes fall to her mouth, where her lower lip slips between her teeth.

Did Caitlin not study? He'd watched her do her French homework and work on an assignment for History, but he can't recall Caitlin studying any AP Physics when he went over on Saturday. Had he kept her from her work?

Patty's assigned to pass out all the tests, and they all start working with baited breath—the questions aren't as challenging as they were on tests Dr Wells announced, a courtesy Dr Wells granted them, but they still work for a decent half hour before everyone hands in. Caitlin's the same picture of concentration she always is, save the worrisome chewing at her lower lip.

It nearly breaks his own concentration thinking about it. Had he kept Caitlin from important work on Saturday?

His worry fails to subside when Caitlin remains silent throughout the rest of the class. It isn't like her to come to class unprepared—in fact, he's never known her to be caught unaware by any of Dr Wells pop quizzes. Or had he not been paying close enough attention?

"Are you okay?" he asks afterwards, making his way out of the lab with Caitlin.

Caitlin puffs out a breath, disturbing her bangs. "I wasn't as prepared as I would've liked."

"I'm sorry."

Caitlin's eyebrows shoot up. "Sorry?"

"Maybe if I hadn't come over—"

But even as he's saying it he hears it—is he seriously going to blame himself after Caitlin invited him over and insisted she didn't need help with her chores?

"Barry, I invited you," Caitlin says, half amused as she presses her books to her chest. "My dad wasn't home this weekend and Charlie was a handful. It isn't anyone's fault."

"Yeah, I know, I'm just—I'm sorry," he babbles, and stares down at his feet. God, he needs to find some way to give this a place, or his awkwardness will tear them apart. How had it worked with Felicity again? Or is thinking back to his previous relationship somehow disrespectful to the one he's trying to build with Caitlin?

How does this work again?

"You're cute."

He looks up and smiles, grateful Caitlin sees only his outward blundering self, rather than the panicked mess he's turned inside.

"I have to run," Caitlin says, shooting up to pluck a quick kiss from his lips. "See you at lunch."

She's gone again faster than he can blink, a spitfire on the road to success, so much ahead of her his mind reels at all the opportunities life might yet place in her path. Can he even be considered one of them? Is he worth Caitlin Snow?

.

.

Tuesday comes and goes and few of his worries abate; he's crazy about Caitlin and every kiss and touch sinks deeper beneath his skin than he ever thought possible, but something's nagging at the core of him, sharp and slimy, akin the jealousy he'd felt towards Ronnie. This is different, though, because he's with Caitlin now, and holding this all back fills him with a discomfort unbecoming the relationship he envisions them having. Caitlin doesn't deserve his doubt informing his every move around her.

But how does he get rid of that doubt?

As if the universe itself is conspiring against him, Felicity requests to connect with him over Skype the moment he logs onto his computer that night—and ignoring a well-on-her-way professional hacker seems like the wrong move to make after she watched him log on.

He answers the incoming call with video.

Felicity appears on his computer screen, and waves, since she's used to the sound lagging for a few moments while the call connects properly.

She beams, her usual sunshine self. "Hey, cutie."

"Hey," he says, and averts his eyes, hesitant to add his usual reply when Caitlin had called him cute not a day ago, "Felicity."

How can all his friendships have turned awkward in the wake of him and Caitlin dating? Is he somehow meant to find a new status quo with everyone, like after tremors to an earthquake, because Caitlin has taken on a different role?

If so, maybe all he needs is time.

"Barry, relax"—Felicity picks up on his hesitation—"I was joking."

"You weren't, really."

"Right down to business I see." Felicity nods. "Got it."

"I'm sorry." He rubs at his eyes. "I'm in a weird place right now."

There are few people he could admit that to so openly—he hopes in time Caitlin will become one of them—but ever since their awkward disappeared he's been able to give it to Felicity straight. Her email hadn't been a friendly check-in, despite the usual cheeky undertone; something about him dating Caitlin bothered her and the email had been a direct result of that.

"It's okay," Felicity says, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry about the email. It's not—easy to admit, but I guess I'm still used to the idea of having you all to myself."

He smiles, reminded of how little he could stand to hear about Felicity's love life. "I don't do much better with that."

Maybe there's some truth to it—Iris had to let him go a little bit when he was dating Felicity, and maybe Felicity needs to do the same now too. He can't have his cake and eat it too; he has to choose his relationship with Caitlin over this intimate friendship with Felicity if he wants him and Caitlin to work out.

"So—no discussing our love life?" Felicity asks. "Ever?"

"Or, for now?" he suggests. He can't imagine sharing the details of his dates with Felicity; if Caitlin chooses to share that with Felicity that's her choice, but these are things they used to share too—intimate dinners and stolen kisses, sneaking around their parents' house. It'd be weird to talk to Felicity about it.

"M'kay." Felicity pouts. "I'm happy for you though."

"Thanks."

He's happy Felicity doesn't disapprove of his relationship with Caitlin, or at least not enough to voice it, but he can't help but think about how muddled this has all gotten. Because he liked Caitlin the moment he met her, back when he was still dating Felicity, and Felicity knew that to some extent. So to now be dating Caitlin, despite their break-up—is he unintentionally hurting Felicity by even hinting at a new relationship?

"What's wrong?" Felicity asks, too easily picking up on his distracted train of thought. Somehow it's nice to know she still can though. What would he be without any of the women in his life? Without his mom's undying love, Iris' sisterly advice, Felicity's quick quips that bring him down to earth? Without Caitlin's warmth?

"How did we ever—"

"Work?" Felicity asks, and laughs.

Memories flood his peripheral vision, of fights that undeniably marked their future with each other, of their disproportionate passions in different areas and his indecisive nature, of the storm in her eyes whenever one of them angered the other and miscommunication broke them apart.

"With great difficulty," Felicity says. "But we found our thing."

But there were good times all the same, of laughing along with Felicity so hard his stomach hurt, of carrying her on his back that day on the beach after she got stung by a jellyfish, of her smile pressed against his skin and how warm she felt falling asleep in his arms.

He can't wait to find all that with Caitlin, and that impatience underlies his doubt.

He shrugs. "So—time, then?"

"Sure," Felicity says. "And you have to be willing to work for it. Put yourself in someone else's shoes. Have patience."

Patience has most definitely stopped being one of his virtues, if it ever was one to begin with.

Felicity smiles, clucking her tongue. "You're freaking out, huh?"

Only Felicity would be able to make him laugh at a time like this. "Big time."

"Just be yourself." Felicity shrugs, swiveling left to right in her desk chair. "That's the only you that matters."

It's a him he's too afraid to be around Caitlin—hasn't he always tried to be better around her? Hasn't he always made himself taller and broader, made himself out to sound smarter than he really is? What if Caitlin's only interested in that outward projection, the bright colors meant to win him a mate?

.

.

By Thursday he's certain he'll become the sole catalyst behind his and Caitlin's break-up, which might come sooner than either of them expected. Somehow he's been able to lock his anxiety behind lock and key, acting semi-normal around Caitlin, or so he hopes. If she notices anything she chooses not to say, or maybe she's aware of this weird transitional phase too and tries her best to ignore it, expecting it to pass once they find their bearings together. Which is quite a soothing thought in and of itself.

"Ms. Snow. Mr. Allen," Dr Wells calls after class, waving them over to his desk. It's a routine they've run through many times before, all in service of their healthy competition so he knows what's coming. Maybe they should've added a bet to this test too; this time around he'd definitely get away with asking her out to dinner.

"The impossible has happened," Dr Wells announces, and hands over both their tests, looking at him intently. "You win, Mr. Allen."

Caitlin gasps.

His eyes fall down to the red A+ in the top right corner of his test, find Dr Wells' eyes, and return to the page before an artless, "I what?" slips past his lips. He scored higher than Caitlin? Has he managed to defeat the reigning queen in all of Dr Wells' classes? Is that a good thing, in light of their weekend together and Caitlin's admission she hadn't been as prepared as she had liked?

"You and Mr. Rathaway share a well-deserved first place." Dr Wells winks.

It's hardly a victory knowing Caitlin couldn't give studying her all. Was this his fault? Did he screw this up? Should he have told her he expected a pop quiz and helped her study?

"Now if you'll excuse me..." Dr Wells adds, gesturing at the students gathering outside of the lab for the next class.

"Thank you, Dr Wells," he says, and follows behind Caitlin, her eyes still ticking down the page reviewing her errors. The B- in the corner of the page sends a cold shower down his spine; he can't remember the last time he got a B- in any of his science classes, and he imagines that's no different for Caitlin.

They come to a halt next to Caitlin's locker, who folds the test between her chemistry book, looking at the other books but seeing through them, her eyes out of focus.

"It's one test," he says, in some vain attempt to cheer her up. "You can make it up."

He's well aware that's not the point, that Caitlin would much rather have been able to study this weekend instead of worrying about him and her brother, but this isn't the end of the world—it's one test, a smaller test, and he knows she'll give 200% to every single test that follows. So then why has he chosen to shoulder the blame for this?

Maybe because it's familiar, his insecurity about college had come between him and Felicity and now it's doomed to come between him and Caitlin.

"Barry," Caitlin calls softly.

"Hmm?" He looks up from his test, his eyes immediately drawn to Caitlin's lower lip that has once again slipped between her teeth. "What's wrong?" he asks on instinct, because as corny as it sounds it's one of Caitlin's easiest tells to read.

An apology sets around the pupils of Caitlin's eyes.

"I'm not sure if this is such a good idea"—Caitlin's lower lip escapes—"You and me..."

A red-hot weight settles on his chest. Oh.

Bile rises in his throat. Oh God.

He raises a hand to his forehead, unsure of what he's planning to do with it. That's it then, his chances are gone, shot to smithereens; he's misread everything that's ever happened between them and rearranged it to fit his own desires. Caitlin doesn't want him the way he wants her. Their competition has never been friendly, but hinged solely on the fact that Caitlin won, and always would.

"Y—" His throat closes up and tears shoot into the corners of his eyes as he chokes out, "If that's what you want."

Caitlin's eyes widen in surprise, or shock, he can't tell. "Barry!" she shouts as her face breaks out in a smile and she shoots forward, jumping straight up into his arms—he catches her only because she's virtually weightless, his knees about to buckle from sheer terror.

 _What_? What the hell just happened?

"I'm so sorry." Caitlin's arms tighten around his neck, feet hovering a few inches above the ground. "Barry, I'm joking. I didn't think—"

He puts her down, his heart rumbling around his chest like a rock in a tin can. What the hell possessed Caitlin to do this? His sweet innocent Caitlin? Who—

"Cisco?" he asks. Cisco's the only one cruel enough to think of something like this; Caitlin never struck him as a prankster. "Cisco put you up to this?"

Caitlin looks up at him apologetically. "I didn't actually think it would work."

Only goes to show how much he yet stands to learn about her.

"I should've known." A painful laugh escapes him, still too overwhelmed by Caitlin's prank. "You're both—"

Caitlin's eyes narrow. "Cold?"

"That's not—" He blinks, shakes his head once. "I didn't mean—"

"Barry, _relax_." Caitlin squeezes at both his shoulders, while his hands settle along her waist. "You had that coming," she says heatlessly, "for ever thinking I'd think my grades more important than my—"

"Your—?" he prompts, eyebrows shooting up.

"My _boyfriend_." Caitlin caresses a hand down his arm until her fingers curl around his hand—they're cold to the touch, but the press of them against his skin, the reassuring squeeze that follows, warms from the inside out.

It's almost too overwhelming to hear. He's—Caitlin Snow's boyfriend?

"You have to stop overthinking everything, Barry," Caitlin says, and reiterates once again, "I like you," as if those words hadn't been playing on repeat in his most hopeless fantasies. He knows this, or he should, but so many insecurities have been throwing him for a loop.

Caitlin casts down her eyes. "I've liked you a lot longer than I was supposed to."

"Wh—" escapes his mouth but little else follows. His legs nearly give out from under him at the sound of Caitlin's confession, one she seems ashamed off.

She had feelings for him last year? Had everyone been right? How had he not seen this?

And he gets Caitlin's reticence in admitting it; he understands the jagged outlines of having a crush on someone when you're with someone else, when you're _in love_ with someone else and everything points towards you spending years with that person—he's ashamed to admit he had feelings for Caitlin while he was still dating Felicity but he'd archived it as something innocent, fantasies everyone had at some point or other, but now—

Why him? Why him _over Ronnie_?

He doesn't mean to imply Caitlin's better than Felicity just... _different_ , more like him, and—

He's confused, and astounded, and more than a little speechless.

Caitlin looks up again, playing her fingers between his. "I don't want you to feel like you have to show me a version of yourself you think I want to see," she says. "Because I'm not interested in that Barry."

He releases a slow even breath, his shoulders relaxing for what seems the first time in two weeks. So plain boring Barry Allen it'll be from now on—what could possibly be wrong with being himself? He's been himself a lot longer than he's tried to live up to this ideal of being the perfect boy for Caitlin? How could he even know what that is? And how would that not have gotten him in a bind? Would he have pretended to be someone else for the remainder of their relationship?

"Okay," he breathes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah"—he nods—"I get it."

Caitlin smiles, and pulls him down to her height to push a quick kiss to his cheek.

Something small and lovely curls near the bottom of his stomach as they make their way down the hallway, both of them running the risk of being late to class, but neither of them seems to care.

Walking hand in hand, too preoccupied with each other to pay much attention to anything, he's caught unaware when Tony knocks into him, chasing all oxygen from his lungs.

Caitlin's hand slips from his.

"Tony!" she shouts.

"Got what you wanted, didn't you, Allen?" Tony sneers, his breath hot against his face, and he's defenseless, trapped, Tony crowding in him from every angle. He doesn't have it in him to start a fight and he wouldn't stand a chance against Tony either way.

How would he even defend himself? He's got everything he ever longed for.

"Woodward!" Coach Garrick's voice travels down the hallway, instantly standing Tony and every other student in the hallway to attention. "My office! Now!"

Tony turns, shoulders sagging, and leaves his side without another word.

He chokes out a grateful breath, loath to think what could've happened had the coach not interfered. He staggers a step back and finds support against the row of lockers lining the wall, wishing for the day he's rid of Tony once and for all. His heart won't be able to take much more of this—Caitlin, Tony, Felicity—how long before it just gives out from sheer strain?

"Barry," Caitlin breathes, by his side in the blink of an eye.

"It's okay."

"It's not okay." Caitlin stomps a foot. "He's supposed to—"

"It's okay," he insists, and finds her eyes the way hers had moments ago. He needs her to hear this. "Tony's not wrong," he says. "This is what I wanted."

Caitlin draws a step closer, and teases a finger along the zipper of his jacket, something soft and sweet and flirty that takes him by surprise. Why is he worried when every step Caitlin has taken has moved her closer to him? Why does he keep holding onto the fear that it'll all slip from his grasp? Caitlin's here, with him, not with Ronnie or anyone else—of all the people in the whole wide world Caitlin chose him and that should be a bottomless source of hope.

"You keep forgetting one thing," Caitlin says softly, but he couldn't guess what it is—he needs to relax, he needs to stop overthinking, all things he's very much aware of. What else should be added to his pile of worries?

Caitlin rises on her toes, the back of her flats slipping off her heels, and finds his eyes while hers twinkle warmth and mischief at the same time. "I want this too," she whispers, gaze wide and hopeful like his heart.

Heat crawls up the back of his neck and reaches around to his cheeks, stuttering into a hiss at the touch of Caitlin's lips to his—he melts down into the kiss, accounting for their height difference, and parts his lips against hers, breathing in deeply. They both want the same things, in more ways than one; they want to leave this school with a grade point average they worked hard for, a shot at the best college, but more than that neither of them want to waste any more time tiptoeing around the fact that they like each other.

That's what he truly wants. Live every moment still afforded him out of the shadows, no longer pining, no longer worrying. Live every moment to the fullest. They're seniors with a bright future ahead of them but the present still needs to be lived all the same. And they're going to do that together.

Or try, anyway.

"Allen," Coach Garrick's voice travels down the hallway again, "Snow."

Caitlin pulls back, while he looks up to catch Coach Garrick's eye.

He clears his throat. "Sorry, Coach."

Coach Garrick nods once as Caitlin buries her face against his chest, and they both start laughing. Students aren't supposed to 'fraternize' on school grounds, though most of the student body has taken that to mean anywhere on school grounds they could get caught—somehow that's never been a problem for him before now.

"Let's get out of here," Caitlin says.

He giggles, Caitlin turning into his body as they lock hands, and he kisses her hair before they scurry off like two lovesick teenagers caught in the act.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	11. Chapter 11

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter eleven

.

.

"You and Coach are related?" Caitlin asks absentminded, her fingers tiptoeing along the spines of all his favorite books—the _Harry Potter_ series, the _Dune_ trilogy, _A Song of Fire and Ice_ —swiftly moving down the shelf with all his science books, and the few left from his childhood.

He's had a picture not unlike this stored in the memory centers of his visual cortex for a long time, a fantasy where Caitlin sits cross-legged on his bed hunched over a textbook, brushing her hair back behind her ear every few minutes. Yet, once again, fantasy proves meager compared to this.

Caitlin had strolled in wearing a dark fedora hat, now resting at the edge of his desk, and a red-striped white jumper over a pair of black leggings—loose and carefree, as if untethered from a life less encumbered now that he's taken up a position in it, though maybe the latter was more wishful thinking on his part.

She'd greeted his mom with a big smile and chatted with her a moment or two, patted Krypto on the head, before the two of them headed upstairs, even though his textbooks all lay downstairs on the living room table and Caitlin had left her bag downstairs. Still, to have her hovering near all his favorite things, marvel at his small collection of dinosaur figurines, enumerate her own cherished childhood books, and generally take in his room one item at a time—she might as well be tracing her fingers over a braille description of him, raised dots on a piece of paper detailing his innermost workings.

It makes his skin flush as if she were touching him.

This isn't merely the house he grew up in, where the kitchen wallpaper showed faded markings documenting his growth spurts, or the floorboards in the living room showed scuffmarks where he'd once tried to rearrange the furniture for reasons he can't recall—this room is where his nightmares used to live in the shadows, where he'd stained the floorboards spilling a bowl of tomato soup when he was six, where his mom and dad used to kiss him goodnight and he often got up to no good with Iris.

Where he'd grown up one inch by awkward inch and his right hand slipped below the covers of the bed to—

He clears his throat.

"Distant cousins," he mutters, shrugging to chase away the thoughts now skimming too close to Caitlin's physical presence. "Once or twice removed. We don't really know each other."

Caitlin skips daintily over to the bed and settles next to him, the bed dipping slightly under her weight pulling him off center, right into her orbit. Their thighs touch and his skin tingles, but he extinguishes any discomfort when their eyes meet, taken by the scent of her perfume, of her long curly hair, of something altogether indecipherable.

"You ever talk to him about Tony?"

He averts his eyes, another mental image in too close a confine to Caitlin now, and picks at a loose scab on the inside of his palm. "He's asked me to report him to the school."

Caitlin bumps their shoulders together. "And will you?"

He nods. "I should."

"I will," he tries the words out in his mouth, but they fail to find the kind of conviction that might persuade him to do so.

Coach Garrick, a son or grandson of one of his grandma's brothers, pulled him aside not too long ago to urge him to report any trouble with Tony—anything that went unreported couldn't help the school build a disciplinary file. It all sounded good in theory, but nothing had ever been done in grade school and things only started going downhill again before the summer. Getting Tony kicked out of school in his senior year seemed cruel somehow.

But was it any less cruel than taking his punches and letting it all happen?

"I know you had problems with Lexi," he says, hoping to steer the conversation away from him. He loves that Caitlin cares enough to ask, but this is a battle he's fought alone for a long time, with moderate success. It isn't a part of his past he's proud of or keen on revisiting, however hard Tony's making that for him again.

"She used to put gum in my hair, Barry." Caitlin skims a hand down his arm, down around his wrist. "She never scared me."

His jaw clenches, but he sighs, because Caitlin pierces right down to the heart of it: to this day Tony scares the living daylights out of him, something that age hasn't changed, not even the years Tony left him alone. Tony solves problems with his fists the way he would with his brain, with rational thought, and the idea that some people would choose brute force over logic is incomprehensible. Wouldn't it be easier to sit down and talk to someone rather than hurt them?

"He does scare me," he admits, and he ends up sacrificing absolutely nothing—he can talk about this to anyone, even the school, and as his eyes meet Caitlin's again, it makes so much sense to talk to her. To talk to his girlfriend.

"I never really knew why he did it, you know?" he says, folding his hands around Caitlin's. "I mean, he was bigger than me, and I was an easy target."

"Always with your head buried in a book." Caitlin smiles, something soft and sweet and nonjudgmental, and he pictures her in very much the same way—pigtails or a headband holding back her hair, a book open in her lap as she sits out by the bleachers, drowning in a world of fiction or science like he used to. It did make him a target, but his friendship with Iris put him in the spotlight, especially where Tony was concerned.

He scratches behind his ear. "He definitely had a thing for Iris."

"So he tried to impress her by hurting you?" Caitlin grimaces.

He huffs a laugh. "One of those backwards ways—"

"—boys think they can 'get a girl'?" Caitlin supplies, adding subtle air quotes with a single hand.

"I'm not sure any of us have evolved far beyond that," he confesses with a certain amount of dread, because he too had thought of Caitlin in those terms. He'd never dream of hurting anyone she cares about, but every time he tore down Ronnie, even if it was only ever in his imagination, he became one of those boys. Even now he enjoyed the idea that somehow she was his and his alone—and he's still unsure how far he can take that reasoning before it becomes insulting, or downright disrespectful.

"Even you, Mr. Allen?" Caitlin asks, with that teasing lilt in her voice that might've betrayed her intentions had she not leaned in closer too.

He might've also found the space to answer if it weren't for Caitlin's lips pushing up against his and his whole body relaxing into it, like it's breathing, like it's air, like it's the blush in his cheeks whenever she smiles at him—they exchange short pillowed kisses, one after the other, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end as Caitlin curls fingers into his hair.

Their noses bump clumsily and a laugh or two bubbles up between them, small pockets of air popping like heated corn kernels.

"Barry, honey," his mom calls up.

He pulls back, and blinks, trying to get his bearings: who, what, where?

"Barr?" his mom calls again.

"She calls you 'bear'?" Caitlin's voice reaches through the thick fog in his head, followed precipitously by a puff of air breezing against his lips, her soft smile, her lips kissed red; her big brown eyes come into view, her lower lip sucked into her mouth as if trying to chase the taste of his mouth. He means to do the same, run his tongue along his lips, until his mom's voice drifts upstairs again...

"Just a sec," he says and heads out into the hallway, out onto the landing so he can meet his mom's line of sight.

His knees are wobbly. Have they ever done that before?

"Yeah, mom?"

"I'm going to be out for a few hours," his mom says. "Are you guys going to be okay?"

"We will," he breathes, nodding. "We'll just be studying."

His mom nods, smiling knowingly.

He purses his lips, and nods again; he can't even find it in him to roll his eyes, or huff, or feel insulted or embarrassed in any way. All he can think about is the short trek back to his room, getting back in there to go right back to what he was doing. Was it only a week ago that they went on their first date? Seven days since his life turned upside down in the best of ways?

"We'll be studying?" Caitlin cocks an eyebrow, beaming as he sits down next to her again.

He licks his lips and laughs. "We could—"

Caitlin lays a finger over his lips, but removes it just as fast, urging him closer once again. As the front door closes downstairs, and Caitlin's hand inching into his hair, he decides he has to be the luckiest guy in the world right now; to be with the girl of his dreams, in his bedroom, all alone.

"Barr"—Caitlin giggles against his lips, and he does the same against hers—"that's so cute."

.

.

"Is bowling even a sport?" Caitlin sits down between him and Hartley, crossing her arms over her chest, and pouts.

Hartley snickers. "No, it's not."

Maybe this hadn't been his or Cisco's brightest idea—given how competitive Caitlin is and how hard it is to get Hartley excited about anything new, getting them to tag along on one of their bowling nights should've sent up a bright red flag. Caitlin and Hartley have barely scored any points, though it's sparked a comfortable camaraderie between the two of them. Which was definitely something worth seeing.

"Whatever." Cisco shrugs. "I'm still kicking his ass."

Hartley raises an eyebrow, taunting an artless, "Of course, _cielo_ ," because Cisco has fallen several points behind.

No matter what Hartley or Caitlin claim, this is the only sport he and Cisco are any good at, so naturally they're competitive when it comes to bowling.

Caitlin leans into him, softly asking, "What's 'cielo'?"

The only reason he knows the answer is because he'd asked Cisco. "Spanish for 'sky'."

Caitlin reaches for his hand, wriggling her fingers in between his. "That's so adorable," she says, before Hartley demands her attention again—their hands remain locked, though, the way they do, the way they have done for days upon days now. He can't help but imagine the pet names they might start using. Would he call her 'babe' or 'honey', or maybe a derivation of her name? It wasn't that long ago he could scarcely bring himself to call her 'Cait'.

"Next time we get to pick where we go," Hartley says. "If we ever double date again, that is."

"I think that's only fair," Caitlin agrees.

"Have you ever been ice-skating?" Hartley asks. "Cisco in ice skates is a sight to behold."

"I have been, yeah." Caitlin laughs. "But I would pay a lot of money to see that."

"Hahaha," Cisco whines. "Like any of you are any more coordinated than I am."

Cisco grabs his ball and methodically shuts out all of their voices, focused only on the lane ahead, and the pins waiting at the end. They both take their bowling very serious.

Caitlin turns away, sending another pang of guilt through him; maybe he and Cisco shouldn't have insisted on them playing—he'll have to find some way to make this up to her, and then never insist on taking her bowling again.

"Is this—okay with your parents?" he hears Caitlin ask Hartley, and he does his best pretending he's not listening in on every word; if anything good can come from tonight he's glad it's an unlikely friendship between Hartley and Caitlin. "I mean, do they know where you are?"

"They're not home this week." Hartley averts his eyes. "But no, they don't know."

"Your turn, boo," Cisco calls, before Hartley allows his boyfriend to pull him up out of his seat, and they both trot over to where all the bowling balls are lined up in neat rows next to each other—they're still trying to figure out what weight Hartley should go with, though he's not sure that'll help.

Caitlin turns into his body, laying her head on his shoulder.

"You okay?" he asks, because he can imagine the same thoughts spook through Caitlin's head as they've done through his. How does Hartley lie to his parents every day? How does he balance doing what's right for him as a person with living in a house with two people who wouldn't accept him for who he was if the world were ending? It's a conversation he wishes he could have with Hartley, or he hopes Cisco has with Hartley—maybe, eventually, it's something Hartley and Caitlin can talk about.

"Makes me sad," Caitlin says.

"I know." He touches his lips to Caitlin's forehead. "Me too."

.

.

"Caity, I FOUND NEMO!" Charlie shouts for the entire aquarium to hear, his voice travelling along the big blue tanks lining both sides of the room.

There are all kinds of families making their way through all the rooms—kids younger and older than Charlie bustling to and from their parents to point out a new fish, to run away scared of a big stingray or a shark, but mostly having the time of their lives. The room smells faintly of chlorine, and fish, ironically, and it sparks memories he thought much further from his mind.

"Did you?" Caitlin beams, hurrying to catch up to her brother and sink to her knees next to him. Charlie excitedly thumbs at the glass to follow the Clown Amenomefish through the water, while he stares at his girlfriend and her little brother from a distance, much like old times.

 _Aquaporium_ represents old times for him, a promise he made Felicity that whenever one of them felt down they'd come here, study the fish, mimic their faces to make each other laugh—it worked like a charm every single time. They knew every inch of this place like the back of their hands, every tank, and almost every single fish. Maybe it's wrong to bring Caitlin here now, build new memories atop a solid foundation showing no cracks or fissures. Still, he's not here to cover up that foundation, to will it from his mind by creating a new layer of stones on top of the old ones. It just seemed like the kind of place Charlie would love.

"Why don't you go ahead and look for Dory now?" Caitlin urges, and stands again, idling by the glass until he's by her side.

Charlie skips a few steps ahead, attentively studying the fish tanks in search of a small Pacific Blue Tang.

He, in turn, comes to a standstill next to Caitlin, letting his chest brush her shoulder briefly—it's something loose and carefree, something that untethered in a mind now less prone to panic around her, but more likely to stake a claim to her personal space, their zones of comforts slowly becoming one as the days pass.

"This was the best idea." Caitlin smiles fondly, hooking their fingers together at the knuckles. "I can't believe we've never been here before."

"This is one of my favorite places in the world."

"Why's that?"

"The water just—" _reminds me of Felicity, her smile and silly face and her hand in mine,_ "—calms me down, I guess."

He averts his eyes, wondering why he said anything at all; he honestly came here with the best of intentions, to make sure both Charlie and Caitlin had a good time instead of remaining cooped up in the house waiting for their dad to come home—after this he's hoping they could head to the movies to watch _Zootopia_.

If his lies don't catch up to him first.

"But you hate swimming."

"How do you know that?"

Caitlin smiles. "I know a lot more about you than you give me credit for."

He looks at her sideways, nearly brought down to his knees by how starkly different it is this time around—Caitlin's smile never came as spontaneous as Felicity's, not the unguarded genuine ones that started butterflies in his stomach; Caitlin didn't joke around though was equally quick-witted, but more than that, more than anything about Felicity combined, he's so incredibly astounded every time he's made to realize how much she learned about him before they started dating. He thought it'd been one-sided, that he was the one with the hopeless crush that would never amount to anything, but Caitlin's liked him from a distance just the same.

It makes his lies all the more unfair.

"What's wrong?" he asks, eyes ticking along her pursed lips, ones he can't wait to kiss again.

"I was just thinking about the name"—Caitlin shrugs, quirking an eyebrow apprehensively—"Aqua _porium_?"

He laughs, because he can see where this is going; he had a discussion not unlike this one with his dad the first time he took Felicity to the aquariums. "From the Latin for 'water'," he teases, giving her fingers a light squeeze.

Caitlin rolls her eyes, no heat behind it. "And Latin for 'place of trade.' But you can't buy any fish here."

He shrugs, coming to a halt. "It's cute."

"It's false advertising."

He motions at Charlie. "Charlie doesn't care."

Caitlin stops them both to a halt not far from where Charlie's tracking a small Yellow Tang. "You can't use my brother to win an argument," she says, and tilts her head, grabbing both her hands around his.

"Oh, we're arguing now?"

Caitlin pushes close, chasing what little oxygen left between them from the atmosphere. "Nah," she whispers, and leaves behind a sweet kiss on his lips.

"CAITY!" Charlie shouts, and he's left alone to clear his throat and trail behind his girlfriend like a lost puppy—Caitlin knows exactly what she's doing when she melts into him like that, when she draws closer and steals his oxygen supply, leaving him hypoxic and cyanotic.

They head into the Atlantic Depths next, where glittery silver shoals slide by behind the glass along with sand eels and different kinds of octopi; in the Ray Lagoon they see a variety of beautiful rays in vibrant colors, their eyes moving funnily on top of their bodies. During the Shark Walk, the sharks swimming past below their feet, Charlie jumps so hard he scares the living daylights out of both of them—so Caitlin carries him the rest of the way.

Last but not least they come to the Ocean Tunnel, a tank that runs like a glass tunnel over their heads and around them; Charlie's eyes go wide and he calls out to every single fish, especially the turtles. Charlie reaches his arms up for him, figuring his sister's tall boyfriend can get him much closer to the ceiling than Caitlin could. So he obliges the toddler and picks him up, lifting him high enough to touch the ceiling.

Charlie squeals, and Caitlin bounces up and down on the tips of her toes, and he's never felt more part of something save for his own family. This had nothing to do with Felicity, or their relationship; this was all about Caitlin and her brother.

"Barry?" Charlie asks, hugging his new plushy turtle to his chest, reaching up one hand to take hold of his.

It still astounds him how small Charlie's hand feels in his, or that the boy takes it at all.

"Yeah, bud."

"Are you Caity's boyfriend?"

He nods, glancing across the toyshop where Caitlin's picking through some key chains. "I—am," he says, unsure why he hesitates. How much information does one give their girlfriend's five-year-old brother? Is this something Caitlin discussed with Charlie? Or did he –in Charlie's mind– simply pop up out of nowhere?

Would Caitlin want her brother to even know this?

"So you're my big brother now?"

Looking down at the little boy he finds his blinking expression mirrored on Charlie's face—the same startling dark eyes Caitlin has stare back at him, an identical kind of sad reflected in them. He's never had the opportunity to spend much time with younger children before, and he's not convinced he's any good with them, but he likes to think he does okay with Charlie. Charlie's an easy kid to like, even though he's still closed off at times, but the same could be said about his big sister. He wants him and Charlie to get along, he wants to be able to talk to Charlie, so does that mean he has to become part of the family? After two weeks?

"Caity, Barry's my brother!" Charlie calls, and runs over to his big sister, flinging himself around her legs.

Caitlin blinks up at him, wide-eyed.

He shakes his head. "I didn't imply—"

But Caitlin's smile cuts him short. "Of course, he is," she says as she ruffles through Charlie's hair.

Words escape him once again; Caitlin's a constant surprise to him, a Jack-in-the-box, or one of those chocolate Kinder eggs with a toy inside. He never knows what he's going to get; the bright supernova or shooting star, the whirlwind scientist or the soft caring sister, a kaleidoscope of color across the spectrum or a girl turned a little darker. She's like candy he's slowly unwrapping, little by little, and he hopes to unveil all her secrets.

Yet he can't help but wonder: was Ronnie Charlie's big brother too?

.

.

"Barr, you're in love," Iris squeals, clapping her hands together in front of the camera while she bounces up and down on her bed, making her computer, and the webcam, shake uncontrollably.

"I'm—" He frowns, unsure what gave Iris that impression. He was only telling her about their day at the aquarium, and he's fairly certain his love for Caitlin hasn't physically carved itself into his face. _Yet_ , "—what I've always been with Caitlin."

Iris tilts her head. "Are you sure about that?"

"Why?"

"I've seen what you look like pining after girls, Barry." Iris scoffs. "This isn't it."

He can't help the smile that sneaks across his lips, a small traitorous show of emotion he'd hoped to contain when talking to his best friend; he may have listened to her moon over Eddie plenty of times before, but that didn't mean he had to put her through the same thing. No matter how much he might want to. Still, it comes as no surprise that Iris can tell.

"I take it things are going really well?"

"Yeah," he breathes, laughing, "they are. Things are amazing."

Sometimes it's almost too much to bear, and he'd like to sink to his knees in front of whoever asks and give a soliloquy about all the things Caitlin has come to mean to him, describe the way her lips cushion against his in a warm press, and how his skin summersaults whenever Caitlin's fingers inch into his hair. Each time he decides against it, because it seems unbecoming a boy who'd spent the majority of his junior year trying to imagine what it would be like. But it has been amazing and real and pure and every other hyperbole that doesn't currently spring to mind; Caitlin tracks across his entire field of vision and he could go blind staring at her the way he has.

"Details, Barry!" Iris calls, making her computer shake again, and really, how can he deny Iris anything when she's this adamant? He wouldn't want to get on her bad side because he refused to talk about his own girlfriend. Perish the thought.

"Caitlin's amazing." He throws up his hands, and quite easily falls into a few detailed descriptions of their dates, their double dates, playing footsie under the table in the library or at lunch, how he's missed a few of Dr Wells' questions because of how wrapped up he got in staring at Caitlin's profile. How despite all of that his SAT prep is going better than it had so far and how more convinced he feels he'll figure out this college thing in time for graduation. Caitlin makes him feel like he can take on the entire world.

For all the months this crush has persisted it's never ached quite like this—this sense that something will go missing should he ever lose Caitlin, of every single one of his molecules pulling towards her like they were those humans in that old Greek myth, with four arms and four legs, a single head with two faces until Zeus split them in half, and each half would forever be longing for its match.

He'd known for a long time he'd met his match in Caitlin. He just never knew quite how much.

.

.

"How do I look?" Caitlin asks, closing the front door behind her, and twirls a single circle in front of him—her curls follow the movement in a curtained pirouette, at least the ones not trapped under the dark blue beanie, the color matching her leggings.

Laughter bubbles in his chest at the sight of her, a picture of beauty, of winter not yet reached, of an all-round happiness he's uncertain he ever felt before. Maybe as a child, when his dad taught him how to swim, or when his mom chased the monsters from the shadows with a few choice words. There'd be a swooping sensation in his stomach, like there is now, an unbearable lightness surging through his veins that nearly starts him flying.

"Adorable as always," he says, and plants a kiss on her lips, one on her nose, pulling back. "Love the hat."

"Thank you." Caitlin smiles. "I bought it for the occasion."

"And the coat?" he asks as they make for the car, his eyes travelling down the thick gray fabric, tied together around her waist.

As soon as he asks Caitlin's eyes turn downcast and her lips press together in a tight line. "No," she says with a slight shake of her head, and turns towards the car. He leaves his questions for what they are. She doesn't need to say the coat was her mom's.

There are so many things he wants to ask her; her favorite memories with her mom, which of those made her stomach swoop too, and what her mom was like, if she was anything like her daughter. Caroline Snow had been a nurse most of her working life, but had she wanted to be a doctor, or was she perfectly content helping people the way she did? Did Caitlin learn her discipline from her mom?

He has so many questions, but he's afraid to ask every single one of them.

He drives them to the _The Ring_ near Central City Arena, a smaller ice rink for amateur ice skaters, families and little league hockey practices—he hadn't been able to convince Cisco to tag along, however much Hartley tried as well, but he looked forward to spending time with Caitlin alone. Charlie never got in the way, but he liked having her to himself, for obvious reasons.

"How'd you get the keys?" Caitlin asks, following quickly behind, grabbing around his arm as they make their way inside, deeper and deeper into the building. He's never been here before but his mom told him where to go to turn on the lights—they travel along a long hallway, at the end of which they come to the darkened arena. He skips ahead into the control booth, feeling around for the switches.

"I'll have you know my mom's a very high ranking member in the community."

"So she called in a favor for you?" Caitlin calls, a little too much delight in her tone.

He laughs. "You don't seem nearly impressed enough, Snow! I know you've been ice-skating before but like this?"

He flips a switch, two, three, and the lights over the ice come on one by one, illuminating the rink and the seats circling it. As his eyes meet Caitlin's, two identical smiles copy-paste along their lips. He's not sure if he meant to impress or not, or if he just meant to give her another memorable date, or if that's even a distinction he can make. He could spend every day for the rest of his life with her and he wouldn't tire of her, of them, of all the promise the future holds.

They find the right sized ice skates along the side of the rink, struggling with the tricky long laces until they're both ready, helping each other upright.

"It was Ronnie, wasn't it?" slips out rather unintended.

Why would that matter? Why does his mind skip to Ronnie time and time again?

"What was?"

Why is it, when he's this happy and this fulfilled, that his insecurities still manage to sneak up on him?

"Ronnie's the one who took you ice-skating the first time," he says, because he can't leave this question hanging, can't disrespect the relationship he's building with Caitlin by constantly bottling everything up. Or lying.

Caitlin takes a deep breath, while her eyes remain big and shining. "You don't need to impress me, Barry."

He faces away.

It's another illogical jump in yet another conversation brushing the boundaries of another relationship, a past relationship, but if his insecurities are this obvious why hasn't Caitlin headed for the hills yet? Why doesn't she get out while she still can? She sees it as self-evident that Ronnie took her ice-skating, like Felicity introduced him to the aquariums and why wouldn't she? He's not disrespecting his past by dating someone new, and neither is Caitlin. Caitlin isn't Felicity and if she's not competing with his ex then why should he with Caitlin's? It's an illogical reflex in this entirely new and exciting relationship they're constructing between the two of them and he should make a conscious effort to stop doing that.

"Before my mom died," Caitlin says, and that last word, _mom_ , appears so out of the blue he forgets his own unease—he wants to hear every single word that follows, "I knew what every day was going to look like until graduation. I had a plan."

Caitlin shrugs. "I like plans."

A smile skips to a corner of his mouth. She gets her discipline from her mom.

"Ronnie—" she adds, idling a step closer, skirting the same line between how much he wants to hear and how much he needs to, "—took me indoor skiing, or made me try Thai food."

Ronnie had been there for Caitlin every moment of every day and maybe that's what's truly terrifying; Ronnie saw a side of Caitlin he hasn't. Not yet.

"He terrified me, but I needed the distraction," Caitlin says. "It meant I didn't have to think about what I lost."

Or maybe not. Maybe Caitlin simply doesn't talk about her mom. What is she saying? That Ronnie was nothing more than a distraction? That it was easy for them to go their separate ways when Ronnie graduated?

That he's her new distraction?

"I still think about her," Caitlin says, "and I still hurt, but I don't need to be terrified anymore."

The confession doesn't logically trace from his initial question or from the happy banter they started from, but they're talking about something real, something still so incredibly frail it could slip between their fingertips, dissipate in the molecules of oxygen dispersed in the room. Their relationship is so incredibly young anything could yet happen.

Caitlin takes a step closer, taking his hand. "Not when I'm with you."

His heart skips a beat. Not when she's with him? What makes him any different?

"So I need you to be yourself," Caitlin says softly.

It isn't anything he hasn't heard before, and he wishes he could take it to heart; he wishes he could be himself without constantly needing to compete—though whom is he competing against? Ronnie left for college months ago, Caitlin isn't Felicity, and he has nothing to prove to himself either. All he has to do is be Barry Allen, science nerd, comic book geek, and uncoordinated sappy mess of a boy. Surely he can manage that.

"My unexciting nerdy self?" he asks, for lack of anything more substantial.

" _Yes_ , to the nerd part." Caitlin smiles. "But I'd never call you unexciting."

When their lips meet in a kiss he's all too aware her words could be misinterpreted, that he could be considered a distraction for her while her healing process continues behind walls unable to be climbed.

But he has a mind to try.

Hand in hand they waddle towards the ice, one foot firmly planted on the cold underground before the other joins, and they both hold on tight to the railing.

"Now what?" Caitlin asks, her eyes big and frightful as her legs desperately seek to settle.

"What do you mean, now what?" he asks, holding his arms level to the ground in an attempt to maintain his balance. If Ronnie introduced her to ice-skating surely Caitlin can help him out here? He hasn't the faintest idea how to skate, let alone on ice. Come to think he definitely lacks the coordination skills for this. "I thought—"

"Barry, I'm terrible at this!" Caitlin shrieks, and grabs around his arms.

Before he gets the chance to consider how uncharacteristic it is for Caitlin to admit to any weakness his left foot slips and his right quickly follows, sending them both tumbling down onto the ice. Caitlin somewhat manages to break her fall landing on her gloved hands, while he lands hard on his shoulder.

It takes a moment or two to process what happened, how he'd gotten them into this mess of a date and almost let his insecurities ruin everything, and—

Is his girlfriend _laughing_?

He looks to Caitlin, settled on her arms, hidden behind a curtain of her curls. Giggling uncontrollably.

Rolling onto his back his mind ticks along the chain of events that led them there—a disastrous bowling date where he learned Caitlin had gone ice-skating before; finding out his mom had access to the venue; asking Caitlin if she'd be interested in doing it again sometime, even though nothing had indicated she'd enjoyed it the first time. He can be such an idiot sometimes.

The thought starts him laughing too, and that swooping sensation follows, deep at the pit of his stomach. Happiness. Joy.

Their laughter echoes through the empty rink, cascading down the walls, while the cold reaches inside his lungs and whirls whimsically around his ribs. He stays exactly where he is, though, exactly where he needs to be when Caitlin hoists herself half on top of him, breathing, "Oh God," with little air to spare, burying her face in his chest to hide another bout of the giggles.

"Can't say I never take you anywhere," he wheezes, tears in his eyes.

Caitlin lifts her head, chin pressed down on his sternum. "You don't have to take me places."

He smiles.

He could make an easy quip about her being a cheap date but the moment doesn't call for it—he can't think of anything else but her smile, the kind that makes her eyes smaller and crinkle at the corners, that stretches her lips and balls up her cheeks. There, on the ice, her body growing heavier on top of him, he makes a vow to try every single moment of every single day to see the ways in which she's healing, all the different things that help her deal, and where he might be able to pitch in.

Yes. He has a mind to do that.

"I like taking you places," he says softly, brushing back a strand of her hair that escaped her wooly beanie, and breathes out evenly.

He could stay glued to her like this forever, unencumbered by the cold.

.

.

"What was that?" He shoots straight up on the couch, lips separating from Caitlin's in a brief wet pop, his ears tracking the noise upstairs. As often as he's been to Caitlin's house these past few weeks he hasn't grown used to the typical noises it makes—unlike his home it creaks in different places, betraying its age with a wooden pop here, a scratch there.

Caitlin sits back, exasperating, "It's Charlie flushing the toilet."

They'd planned on watching a movie together; Caitlin's dad left for work a few hours ago so she'd invited him over, to help out with Charlie, to work for school, but mostly to have time together once Charlie went off to bed. Most of that had gone according to plan, but they hadn't seen much of the movie after the first ten minutes, when Caitlin had curled up against him and demanded his attention, her soft lips demanding more still.

"Barry, relax," she says now, when another creak in the floorboards nearly has him jumping out of his skin—he's been here before but not this late, not this close to Caitlin and so utterly unaware of the world around him when they're lost in a kiss. He wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.

"Your dad could—"

"You'll be home before he gets back."

"I just—want him to like me," he says, eyes downcast, another insecurity threatening to spill free after he'd so carefully locked them all away. Christopher hadn't approved of Ronnie, because Ronnie and Caitlin started dating so young and because Ronnie had been older, maybe even because he was more of a party animal than Caitlin was. He and Caitlin are the same age, and they're not too young to share this kind of relationship, he reckons, but he'd still rather not meet with any parent's disapproval.

"You're dating his little girl," Caitlin says, amusement playing around her mouth like a small red devil. She's taunting him constantly, because she understands the outlines of his insecurities as if they were her own, though he's thus far not seen any of hers. He often wonders if he ever will.

"He'll never completely like you," Caitlin adds, laying her hand over his heart.

He huffs. "It's not funny."

Caitlin laughs. "It's a little funny Donna Smoak is the only parent you've had to deal with so far."

Fair point, he thinks; he and Felicity got away with a lot, even when her mom knew—they got drunk on Donna's pink wine coolers while she sat in the next room; he'd been caught sneaking into Felicity's room and allowed to go his way; not to mention the countless of times they'd taken Donna's car and headed out of town on short road trips his parents never knew about.

"She could be scary when she needed to be," he says, recollecting the rare times Donna Smoak had caught him by surprise; whenever Felicity couldn't be reached on her phone she'd get an earful once she returned home, about responsibility and the freedom she's allowed, and how none of that extended to disappearing for hours on end with Donna worrying about where she went. Much like Felicity, Donna proved a puzzle.

Caitlin cocks an eyebrow. "So can I."

He chuckles, kissing her cheek. "Somehow I'm less worried about your wrath."

Caitlin's eyes widen in shock, and she laughs, "You're on thin ice, mister," before she pinches his side hard, making him jump again. He's so surprised by Caitlin's sneak attack that he fails to fend off her next two, another pinch to his side before she makes for his ribs, tickling with her delicate fingers. He writhes on the couch, laughing so hard he's afraid it'll wake up Charlie, but launches his counter attack once he gets his bearings.

.

.

"You're staring," Caitlin says, her pen scratching out another equation in her notebook.

"Lovingly," he explicates, chin resting in the palm of his hand, already anticipating the smile that follows. It isn't enough to break Caitlin's concentration, but that hadn't been his intent. No, he's up to a whole other kind of no good.

"Let's get some fresh air."

Caitlin swipes at her cellphone, numbers counting down to zero on the screen. "Twenty minutes on the timer."

"We've been studying for hours."

"And we can study for another twenty minutes."

Without another word Caitlin returns to her books, picking up exactly where she left off. Under any other circumstances he wouldn't push this, he'd wait for the timer to run out so they can go out and do something more fun, but he's reached the ceiling of how many things he can fit into his brain today. He's antsy, with the SATs fast approaching and facing the last warmer days of the year.

He doesn't want to remain cooped up inside.

It's more than that, really; these past few weeks have seeped into his bones like a protective layer, wrapping around some of his insecurities and silencing them, growing his confidence around Caitlin, around her dad, around Charlie—and it's made a lot of things a lot less scary. If he'd describe it in any clear terms he'd think of himself as unfolding, opening like a chrysalis into someone a lot more true to Barry Allen than he'd been before.

"Can I ask you a question?" he tries carefully, adding, "That—you don't have to answer," to be safe.

"My least favorite kind of question," Caitlin says, but lowers her pen to the table, her eyes tracking down his face while she gives her lower lip a tentative first nip. "Shoot."

"Your mom," he says.

Caitlin blinks.

"You know you can talk to me about her," he adds, "Without—"

Without what? Without fear of what he might think of her? Without needing to be afraid of crying in front of him? In his experience Caitlin isn't one to show weakness, to show the emotional depths her mother's loss cuts down to, but she has to know, she has to realize. She could fall to pieces and he'd try to hold her together.

Caitlin sits back and contemplates, staring at her books without seeing, drawing air into her lungs without really breathing. Her shoulders set in that telltale downward slope, but he's learned to decipher her silences—they might last, and they might persist, but if he's patient they end too, and Caitlin comes to see she can tell him anything. At least, he hopes she knows that.

"I don't let myself sit still long enough," her voice comes sheepish and weak, putting new words to the test, "to think about her."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't talk about her," Caitlin says, and wrings her hands together. "Not to my dad, not to Charlie, not—" _Ronnie, or you_ , he provides. "It's been over two years and—"

He reaches for her hand, curling his fingers around hers. "Cait, you lost your mom," he says, unable to fathom what the four short words amount to. Who would he be without his mom? How could he live without her, or his dad at his side? Would he even survive? Who would he be without a home?

"That's not something you just give a place." He allows his heart to guide his words, careful not to sound too flippant and not too heavy-handed at the same time, a fine line between his sympathy and Caitlin's broken heart. "But everything you do, for Charlie, for your dad, that's your mom inside you."

Tear-filled eyes find his in between the echoes of Caitlin's grief.

"You are the most amazing person I have ever met, Caitlin Snow," he breathes, overwhelmed by the ache in his own chest, a part of him that wishes he could bear this weight with her, maybe even for her. Maybe he does, in a way. "And I'm so lucky to be part of your life."

Caitlin breathes in slowly, a tear tracing a whimsical line down one of her cheeks and squeezes his hand tight. Then, she stands and walks over to him, sitting down on his lap, the weight of her as soothing as it is grounding. She can talk to him about anything. He'll always listen.

"I'm not—" Caitlin starts, searching for the right thing to say. "I'm not dating you as a distraction. I know I made it sound like that, but I'm not."

She shakes her head, as if to chase away the traitorous thought itself, but hearing her confession softens the needle that had been stinging since that day at _The Ring_ , where she'd called Ronnie a distraction from having to think about her loss. Maybe even feel it too.

What is it that makes him so different?

"I feel like you're the first person to really understand me," Caitlin answers the unspoken thought, stroking a hand through his hair where her fingers hook around the back of his head, holding on for dear life.

From the moment they met he's seen her as the brilliant young scientist, as the popular girl with a nerdy side, as the girl on the pedestal he started to see more and more as a real girl—he's not sure he deserves to be seen as the first person to understand her, but he's happy it seems that way from time to time. Whenever he's not doing anything to screw it up.

"I like you so much, Barry Allen," Caitlin whispers.

Swallowing hard his skin tingles, replaying the seven short words over and over again until he's seeing double.

"And here I thought it was the chemistry puns," he jokes.

Caitlin laughs through her tears and throws her arms around him. He closes his eyes and hugs his arms around her, holding on as tight as he can stand, for as long as he can. Her loss has marked Caitlin as deep as any person can be marked, and he shouldn't beg answers from her she's not willing to give—all he can do is offer his time and patience, and hope beyond all hope he'll get to be there when she's truly ready to open up.

Caitlin pulls back, sniffling. "Let's get out of here."

"Still fifteen minutes on the timer."

Caitlin reaches for her phone, swipes, and presses pause on the stopwatch. "You're a bad influence on me," she says and leans in; the kiss that follows has the same sweet taste as all the others that went before, her perfume and a hint of strawberry chapstick, save for the new undertone that leaves his entire body longing for more—his lips snag around her upper lip and his tongue darts out on instinct, chasing a taste her body in his lap leaves him wanting more of.

Caitlin pulls back breathing deeper, her forehead to his, and smiles.

"No more kissing?" he asks, taking a wild guess, even though he scarcely believes that'll ever become one of their rules. They've decided on a few in recent weeks, and he'll have to start writing them down lest he forgets; no kissing until they get all their homework done; no more footsie during lunch, because the tables at the cafeteria don't offer as much privacy as they'd like, though they'd found a clever workaround for that by sitting side by side and simple hooking their ankles together.

Caitlin hops off his lap. "You're the one who wanted to get out of here."

He feigns disconcertion with a quick, "Not at this cost!" repelling any more tears. As a hormone-crazed teen he'd want nothing rather than to sink down on the couch with Caitlin in his arms and make out until her dad comes home; sometimes it's a wonder he can pull himself away at all.

"Charlie!" Caitlin calls.

None of the telltale sounds follow: Charlie doesn't call back, his feet don't thump on the floorboards, and he doesn't zap in with his signature, " _Flashhhh_!"

"Come on, buddy!" he calls too, following Caitlin out into the living room. "We're going out."

They find Charlie sitting neatly in the middle of the couch, looking through some of his comics, treating every page like it's a divine thing. He's the same way with his comics.

"For ice cream," Caitlin says.

"ICE CREAM!" Charlie shouts, before his comics tumble to the ground and he rushes past them.

"Ice cream?" he asks, barely recovered from the whirlwind turnaround of the past few moments; no five minutes ago Caitlin sat across from him with tears in her eyes and now she's breaking all the rules. Her own rules, but still.

Caitlin shrugs, slipping past him in pursuit of her brother. "Who's going to stop me?"

.

.

"You gotta be kidding me." Cisco's jaw drops to the floor reading the French title displayed on the poster they've gathered around, and he promptly turns to his boyfriend. "When you said _Children of Paradise_ —"

"You expected an English movie, I'm well aware." Hartley flashes a disingenuous smile. "It's not my fault you don't listen to me half the time."

To his right Caitlin giggles, leaning against him for support, simply because she can—for the sake of fairness he and Cisco had come to the conclusion that if they ever expected Hartley or Caitlin to watch them bowl again, they had to give them something in return. So that's how they found themselves at a small movie theatre in Keystone playing all European films, of all eras.

He'd warned Cisco the bowling thing would come around to bite them in the ass but Cisco refused to listen. Now it turns out he was right; he's sure he hasn't seen a single French movie in his life, but fair is fair. This is what Hartley and Caitlin wanted to do. Though he doubts this punishment fits the original crime.

"That's cold," Cisco hushes once Hartley holds out a hand to Caitlin, and they watch their significant others make their way to the ticket booth without them.

"Revenge is a dish best served cold, dude."

"You're down with this?"

He shrugs, fine either way; all he cares about is spending time with the people he cares about, if not Caitlin alone. "It's not like we didn't force them to go bowling with us."

His girlfriend's a sore loser, and losing didn't look particularly well on her. Cisco isn't fooling anyone with his tough guy routine either; he hates the thought of Hartley not having a good time when it's something he suggested. Clearly Hartley didn't have that same problem.

"Doesn't mean we gotta take it laying down," Cisco says, falling in line behind Hartley and Caitlin.

"Yeah." He nods. "It does."

.

.

"Dr Wells?" he calls, knocking at the doorframe to get his teacher's attention. His heart jackhammers at this ribcage, like a storm that wants to escape its neatly defined confines—he wonders if this will ever get easier for him.

"Mr. Allen, come in." Dr Wells looks up from his papers. "What can I do for you?"

He bites at his lower lip, a tick not his own that fails to give him any solace, even though this isn't a question he should be nervous about. Not that his academic future doesn't depend on it. He unfolds the sheet of paper he'd folded in two half an hour ago, a shortlist of all the schools he's applying too—he still has a hard time looking at them all typed down together.

A few months from now he'll have to pick through acceptance letters and make a choice that might end up defining the rest of his life.

He swallows hard, unable to digest the pit in his stomach.

"I uh—wondered if I could ask you for a recommendation letter," he says, toeing inside the room carefully, as if the ground beneath his feet comes rocky and uneven.

"It would be my honor, Mr. Allen." Dr Wells smiles. "When are your deadlines?"

He hands over the list, waiting patiently for Dr Wells to study the names on the page. MIT, Weil Cornell Medical College and the University of Michigan were only a few of the big schools he considered attending a year from now. Does he have what it takes though? Would someone this prone to panic do okay at an Ivy League school even if he somehow managed to get accepted?

"I'll have something for you by Monday," Dr Wells says.

"Thank you, Dr Wells."

For some reason he thought it'd be harder than that; he'd come up with a nightmare scenario where he had to beg Dr Wells, list all his competencies, weaknesses and strengths before Dr Wells would even consider pouring his time and effort in a letter that's meant to convince an Ivy League school to accept his application.

"What did he say?" Caitlin rushes over the moment he exits the lab, hooking their arms together, and it's all he needs to make the ground steady beneath him again.

"He said 'yes'."

"Told you he would." Caitlin beams, bumping their shoulders together.

A lot of people have been saying a lot of things he has a hard time believing—Iris and Hartley were right about Caitlin, Dr Wells knew that once he got started with college preparation it'd form into a plan, and Caitlin knows Dr Wells believes in him, in them, in their skills and interests in the field of science. There's bound to come a time where other people's convictions start setting under his skin like truths, and not wishful thinking.

"Are you okay?" Caitlin asks. "I didn't push you too hard into this, did I? Because if I did—"

"You didn't." He shakes his head. "Don't worry."

"It'll get easier," Caitlin says, twining their hands together. "Once you get through most of the paperwork. I promise."

When their eyes meet he can almost see it, maybe not a future planned out like hers once was, but both of theirs running parallel—perhaps entwining like strands of DNA too, at some point. Someday soon they'll need to talk about that future, what their lives will look like after high school and how they both envision that. He's not there yet, not by a long shot, and that's probably a good thing at this point in their relationship.

They pick up Charlie at school and head to Caitlin's, Charlie excitedly chattering away about school and a science project, about superheroes and The Flash, and once he's burned through those topics he focuses on everything he sees outside.

"Caity, look at the doggies, can we get a puppy? Can I ask daddy about it later?" he rants, "I'd take really good care of it and read books and he could play with Krypto."

"We're not getting a puppy, Charlie," Caitlin sighs.

Charlie kicks at the back of his seat, leaving a clear indent in his back.

"Hey!" Caitlin scolds, staring down her brother in the rear-view mirror. "That attitude isn't going to get you anywhere, mister."

Charlie pouts.

"Apologize to Barry."

Charlie crosses his arms over his chest.

"Charlie," Caitlin urges, taking a deep calming breath, "I would like you to apologize to Barry for kicking him."

Charlie drops his chin to his chest, before he mutters a quiet, "Sorry, Barry."

"Apology accepted," he says, and looks at the small boy in the backseat—it seems like both his Snows aren't in the best mood right now and he wishes he knew how to fix it. He's always hesitant to reprimand Charlie or ask Caitlin to go a little easier on him because it's not his place to say so either way; Charlie is Caitlin's brother and not his, but sometimes he's tempted.

Right now, he wishes he could find the right thing to say to break some of the tension rising in the car.

A tension that follows them into the house the moment Caitlin addresses Charlie again: "Ten minutes and you start your chores."

"But, Caity!"

"No buts." Caitlin raises an ominous index finger. "Go get a drink, then you clean your room."

"What about Krypto?" Charlie whines.

"We always walk him after dinner, Charlie," Caitlin says, clearly in no joking mood. "Do as you're told."

Charlie pouts and challenges Caitlin, staring at her with dark petulant eyes, but Caitlin stares him down with authority he's only ever seen in moms. It's scary to see in his girlfriend.

In the end Charlie caves and rolls his eyes, stomping towards the kitchen, making his annoyance well known. For a boy so guarded and shy, careful in his movements, Charlie can be a real kid sometimes. He wonders if he ever gave his mom such a hard time when he was younger.

"You don't have to do chores, you know," he says, hoping to settle everyone into a happier mood, somewhat lighter than the one clouding the air. "We could go out for ice cream."

A hesitant smile pulls at a corner of Caitlin's mouth. "But we're not."

"Or we could walk Krypto early, I'm sure—"

"Barry, I don't—"

"Charlie won't mind," he says. "I can help him with his room afterwards."

"Barry, stop," Caitlin urges as calmly as she can yet muster—if he'd pushed any harder he fears she might have shouted at him. "Please, just stop."

Her exhaustion resonates so loudly in every syllable she forces past her lips that he stops like she asks him to. Was he wrong to suggest they go out? He could take Charlie by himself, if need be, if she needs a few hours on her own.

"Charlie has to learn he won't get his way all the time," Caitlin says, and sure, yes, he can see the merit in teaching Charlie that reward comes after effort, not the other way around, but should that come at the cost of Caitlin's rest?

"I have to do these chores now because I didn't get to them yesterday," she adds. "I have responsibilities I can't neglect just to hang out with my boyfriend. I don't mind playing hooky with you from time to time but sometimes I need to stick to the schedule."

There are far more accusations in there than he cared to hear—how he's pushing too hard, how he has few responsibilities compared to hers, how she's not just his girlfriend but someone's sister too, someone's daughter, holding this household together by its fraying ends. But from his vantage point the Snows have managed exceptionally well in light of their tragedy. Was that all an illusion? Was that what he wanted to see? Or did Caitlin puppeteer far more strings than even he gives her credit for?

In any case, this is probably one of those moments where he should shut up and listen.

He nods. "Okay."

"I'm sorry," Caitlin breathes, placing her hands on his chest, "but Charlie's—"

"It's okay." He folds his arms around her gently. "I shouldn't have pushed."

"I'm happy you do sometimes."

"Not today. I get it," he says, bringing their foreheads together. "Let me help."

Caitlin takes a deep breath. Will she give him this at least, just this once? She's not good at letting other people help her, least of all when it comes to her family, but he's here for her. Always.

"You're not my boyfriend so I can put you to work around the house."

"But you can," he says, just as Charlie rejoins them holding a large glass of orange juice. "I'll make sure he cleans his room."

Charlie huffs.

Caitlin groans, but there's something incredibly grateful hidden in it. "You're the best," she says, and hops to her tiptoes to plant a kiss to his lips. "List's in the kitchen."

Who can deny her anything when she's that adorable?

"Come on, buddy," he says to Charlie, who looks up at him with a certain amount of apprehension, more than a boy his age should be capable of. "The faster we get these chores done, the faster we can walk Krypto."

Charlie pouts, but nods, following him upstairs to his room while Caitlin takes care of some things downstairs. He ends up fixing the garbage disposal and mowing the lawn, chores Caitlin mentions are her dad's, but it helps lure Charlie out of the house where he can give his pigheadedness a little fresh air—he and Charlie wash Caitlin's car together, chasing after each other with a wet sponge, and rake some leaves in the front yard.

"Your brother's really good for my cardio," he says as he crashes onto the couch later, Caitlin landing weightless next to him.

Caitlin scowls, albeit lovingly. "Thanks for helping out."

"One of my many uses."

"Letting you do all the 'manly' chores?"

"I only—" He sighs, wondering how many things he can say wrong today before Caitlin kicks him out. "I wanted to get Charlie out of the house."

Caitlin steals a quick kiss, smiling, "You're too easy," before laying her head on his chest, her ear over his heart.

He is easy, he will admit, for her eyes and for her lips, for her anger, for her pain, even for her brother, if he's honest. But what's the point of being in love if not to be somewhat easy for another person?

"I love that you knew to do that," Caitlin adds.

He imagines she closes her eyes for a while after that, because the room falls silent but for the sound of their breathing—he strokes a hand down her back, from her shoulder down to the small of her back, over and over, and resolves this must be perfect bliss. This must be love.

Or something remarkably close to it.

.

.

For his sixth birthday, Charlie tasks him and Caitlin to help make him bake cupcakes for his class and teachers, which means they end doing most of the work.

He's never baked anything in his life, content to watch his mom do her thing and help her sift flour from time to time, but Caitlin instructs him every step of the way. He suspects it ends up a bit messier than what Caitlin's used to, but by the time they're both licking batter off their fingers he decides that maybe Caitlin has accounted for his kind of messy; what other kinds of concessions has she made in her meticulously planned life to make room for him? Which boundaries does he test with his presence alone?

"How long will they take?" he asks as Caitlin slides the baking tray into the oven, gently massaging at her shoulders.

"About twenty minutes," Caitlin says, carefully setting the timer before she turns. "Maybe twenty-five."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Twenty minutes, huh?"

Caitlin rolls her eyes and smiles, closing the distance between their bodies; his hands settle along her waist, around to the small of the back while Caitlin reaches around his neck, playing the tips of her fingers through his hair. "What _ever_ will we do?" she asks, rising on her toes.

"CAITY!" sounds from the living rom.

He huffs a laugh, lips stopped short of Caitlin's. "Entertain your brother, I'm guessing."

Caitlin pouts, folding underneath his arm as they head for the living room, tugged close together like they were always meant to do just that. "I wish he'd stop making me play Killer Frost."

"She's hot."

Caitlin eyes him, amusement playing around her irises. "You think so?"

"Way better than Zoom."

Caitlin pinches his side, making him jump. " _You_ play her then."

"You think I could pull that off?"

Caitlin's in stitches by the time they reach the living room, much to Charlie's dismay, and can't stop raving about how he'd look in a white wig and a black leather bodice, which starts her laughing all over again. By the time the timer goes off in the kitchen and Caitlin checks if the cupcakes are ready, Charlie's none too happy they didn't play his game, though easily appeased when Caitlin lets him decorate some of the small cakes—Charlie unleashes his imagination to his heart's delight.

Two cupcakes remain reserved for him and Caitlin on the kitchen counter, smeared with some chocolate paste and finished with sprinkles, and a tiny white birthday candle.

"What's that for?" he asks, quickly doing the math in his head—Caitlin's birthday passed in August and his isn't for another few months, and the cupcakes don't seem to be travelling Charlie's way either. So, could it be? Has it already been—?

"Happy one month anniversary." Caitlin beams, and lights the candles, handing him one of the cupcakes. "Make a wish," she says softly, a fire set in her eyes reflecting candlelight, her irises gold and creamy.

One month. One entire month where he's gotten to call himself Caitlin's boyfriend, kiss her and hold her and fall in love with her one single inch at a time. As he watches Caitlin's eyes fall shut he closes his too, purses his lips and blows, making one simple wish. The cake's still warm when he sinks his teeth into it, and as his eyes cross Caitlin's, a speck of chocolate dotted on the tip of her nose, he secretly thinks they may have wished for the same thing.

 _Please. Let this last forever_.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	12. Chapter 12

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter twelve

.

.

Temperatures spike into the low eighties in late October, the final days of fall replacing the early seeds of winter in a last ditch effort to make itself known. Its timing comes perfectly aligned with homecoming weekend, two days where the school turns upside down and goes out of its way to celebrate the cheerleaders, the football team and its players, and school spirit heightens exponentially. Hallways are proudly decked in the red and blue school colors, balloon columns guarding the entrances, wagons for the rally tonight lined up along the track.

Iris and Eddie arrived from Des Moines Thursday night; he'd joined them for dinner at Joe's and then left them all to catch up, and finish his homework. He'll have plenty of time to hog his best friend's attention over the course of the weekend, and he'd hate to take time away from Joe. Iris spent today with her dad while Eddie visited some friends in Keystone, and it's like old times again; he's up early with a sprightly energy only Iris engenders and he can't wait to hang out with her, for her to get to know Caitlin, or to hear more about her college adventures. He hopes Caitlin's excited about the same.

"This one?" he asks, eyeing the blue shirt Iris hands him blindly while she continues rummaging through his clothes for pants that might go with it.

Iris nods.

"Not the red?" He points at the closet, a near identical red next in the small pile of shirts; a color, Iris will agree, many people have told him he looks good in.

"Caitlin said blue."

"Caitlin?"

"She texted me." Iris shrugs, and plunks down on his bed, waiting patiently for him to try on the shirt. Why would it be important to Caitlin he wear blue? Would she be wearing blue too, and preferred them to match?

A smile skips to a corner of his mouth; his best friend and his girlfriend are texting each other about his wardrobe—that's new.

"Your mom told me she and your dad are going away for the weekend," Iris calls as he skips quickly into the bathroom—he and Iris are comfortable around each other but they have their limits. He has no desire to see his best friend in any state of undress, no matter how often that might've happened when they were toddlers.

"They are," he says, shrugging into his shirt. "Visiting friends."

"So you and Caitlin will have the house to yourselves." Iris' eyebrows lift as he enters the bedroom again. "Plenty of time to..."

Eyes narrowing on Iris' face his voice lilts into an amused, "Yeah?" mostly because Cisco made a similar comment earlier this week; Cisco had continued with a wiggle in his eyebrows and pointed out how _interesting_ that sounded. And he's not clueless; he knows exactly what Iris and Cisco implied, but he won't be the one to say it. He spent enough time imagining all the possibilities, and he and Caitlin talked about what they might do—she's staying over Saturday night, with her dad's approval, and they'll watch a movie or two.

Tonight they'd agreed to go to the rally and the game with Cisco and Hartley, Iris and Eddie joining them, and then after dinner Caitlin had to go home because her dad was working a late shift. He wasn't allowed to stay over, but he'd probably be there until he or Caitlin got too tired.

Iris keels over on the bed. "I can't do this," she groans. "How do guys do this?"

He laughs, idly wondering why this would be the one thing they can't talk about; they talk about everything else. In his experience, guys, or rather, the guys he hangs out with, don't exchange this kind of information either. Cisco likes making inferences, but he's never explicit, and Hartley wouldn't like it if he were.

Come to think he's never felt the need to talk to anyone about this outside of the two 'safe sex' talks he got from his mom and dad respectively—he wouldn't know what to say if anyone were to ask, whether his insecurities were something he's allowed to voice, or if they would best be confessed to Cisco or Iris, or his girlfriend. Sure, he's not always certain when or where to kiss, or how to angle his hips to make it feel good for him and his girlfriend, but he's also acutely aware that he's only ever been with Felicity, so as far as 'experience' went he didn't have a whole repertoire of moves. Which he's never considered a bad thing.

He assumes it's as weird for girls to talk to their boyfriends as it is for boys to talk to their girlfriends. Especially at their age.

"You've thought about it," Iris pries, knocking her knee into his.

"Of course I've thought about it."

Caitlin is all he can think about. It's been five weeks of the utmost joy, his lungs expanded around pockets of oxygen that never run out, his skin buzzing whenever they touch and his head spinning at the thought of never coming down from this high. When he closes his eyes he sees hers reflected honey-laced and shining, while his fingertips tingle with a ghostly remembrance of touch—and if he's not thinking about how in love he is, his mind wanders to more earthly desires. He imagines the touch of her lips down his neck, her hands on his bare skin, the outline of her body against his in places they haven't touched before—all scenarios that leave him with a wanton itch he denies is there. But he's human, at the end of the day.

He thinks Caitlin's thought about it too, since she's the one who suggested she stay over, but anything could happen. For all he knows Caitlin will be more comfortable in the guest room, which has been tidied up and cleaned, and the thought of sitting with her at the kitchen table for Sunday breakfast is all the real plans he needs.

"And then I think about my first time with Felicity and—"

He covers a hand over his eyes.

"I'm afraid to ask."

"It was our first time." He chuckles, rubbing at his eyes. "Unplanned. Unexpected."

" _Awkward_ ," Iris supplies.

"So awkward."

He giggles, and recollects every awkward moment about that night; how nervous he'd become the moment they both realized where the night was going, and his body buzzed and his heart palpitated and his mouth had run dry from sudden anxiety; how he'd fumbled unbuttoning Felicity's cardigan and got her glasses stuck in her hair; how conscious he'd felt of every imperfection he'd ever perceived about his own body once his clothes came off; how awkward it'd been checking out each other's naked bodies, and how he'd wanted to say something to ease the mood. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong, from squishing Felicity underneath him to having trouble locating a condom even though he had some in the drawer next to his bed.

It's easy to laugh about it now, but in that moment he'd wanted to sink through his bedroom floor, down to the ground floor and further, if it meant never having to look Felicity in the eye again. He doesn't want it to be like that with Caitlin, even if he and Felicity ended up finding their thing.

Iris pokes a finger at his cheek. "Caitlin isn't Felicity."

"I know." He nods, looking at Iris sideways. That's something he's all too aware of, how Felicity and Caitlin were both beyond compare, and they didn't compare to each other. "But I'm still me."

"Are you?" Iris asks, lips pursed, eyes intent on his face.

He frowns. What is that supposed to mean?

But if Iris meant to explain she never gets the chance; the doorbell rings and she gets up in anticipation of seeing Eddie at the door, even though it could be Caitlin too—they'd agreed to meet up here before driving to school.

He follows her out, equally excited to see Caitlin, but when Iris opens the door with a "Hey, babe," he slows his pace to give Iris and Eddie some privacy.

Eddie, however, enters the house with a, "Look who I found", and Caitlin pushes through the door soon after.

Their eyes meet briefly, and an identical smile ghosts over their lips, his heart picking up speed the way it's learned to do around Caitlin.

"Hey, Barr," Eddie says.

"Hey, Eddie."

Iris and Caitlin greet each other with a quick hug and exchange some pleasantries about hair and outfits, the way that girls do. More than anything he wants Iris and Caitlin to get along the way Iris and Felicity never really did—it's a selfish desire to avoid the same arguments he had with Felicity, but Caitlin and Iris were friends long before he found the nerve to ask Caitlin on that study date. Maybe there's hope for his selfish self.

At long last Caitlin skips over to him, smoothing a hand down his shirt, quietly approving of the blue shirt she'd instructed him to wear. "Hey, cutie," she says, begging a quick kiss.

There's that swooping sensation again, something fluttering pleasantly in his stomach like butterfly wings.

"Look at you."

He inches a step back, unable to contain his mirth as Caitlin twirls once where she stands, her blue flared skirt curling around her thighs coming back down—she's an ocean breeze, a ballerina dancing on the tips of her toes, ethereal and carefree. He doubts this will be a side of her he'll ever tire of seeing, simply because it shows how far she's come. All he sees is color and warmth and a girl finding her footing again after her world got turned upside down.

A small part of him wants to believe he had something to do with that.

Part of him hopes he's not nearly _that_ selfish.

"How was your flight?" Caitlin asks, sidling to his side at the same time Iris presses close to Eddie.

He fails to hear his best friend's reply.

Because when Iris talks he sees what she meant with her question—he recognizes something in her he thinks lives inside him all the same. Maybe he's not still him, not the him he'd been with Felicity, not the Barry he'd been before or in between, but a Barry now loved by Caitlin Snow. He wonders what that must look like to people who know him, if it's anything as heartwarming as watching Iris' eyes twinkle when her eyes meet Eddie's, if to the outside world it seems he has eyes for Caitlin only.

If he and Caitlin are two individuals changing each other for the better.

They all head out together, walking two by two down the driveway.

"Are we still on for tomorrow?" Caitlin asks, hooking two fingers around one of his.

"Yeah." He looks at her, but nothing in her face betrays why their plans might have changed. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Nothing has to happen tomorrow. If Caitlin's not comfortable staying over he won't make her and he definitely doesn't want her to think he has any sort of expectations about what tomorrow night should be.

Caitlin shrugs, whimsical and coy. "Thought maybe you feared my dad's wrath."

"Should I?"

"I don't know. Are you planning anything sinister?"

He snorts and throws an arm around her shoulder, kissing her temple. "No more than usual."

Caitlin laughs and folds an arm around his waist, and they sway into each other's bodies. He had no sinister plans whatsoever; in fact, he hasn't had a sinister plan in his entire life—and he hardly thinks mostly chaste fantasies about sleeping with his girlfriend would fall into that category either. For once he's taking his time; he refuses to rush any other part of their relationship any more than he already has, and if that means exercising patience he'll do it. It's not like Caitlin's holds back during their make-out sessions.

All in good time.

.

.

For a Friday afternoon the school's an unusual amount of chaotic, a lot of last year's graduates reuniting with friends, or older alumni revisiting their old haunts. There are some old-time carnival games set up on the quad; a ring toss, a bottle stand, darts and skeeball, and he'd even heard rumors about a kissing booth—though he doubts the homecoming committee got that past the principal given the school's fraternization policy.

Caitlin skips ahead to talk to some friends.

Iris punches his arm. "I know you said things were going well, but damn, Barry."

"What—" His eyes skip between Caitlin and Iris a few times, while he rubs at his arm. "What do you mean?"

" _I mean_ ," Iris says, "she's in love with you."

"You sound surprised," he quips, but people pointing out they can tell how happy he makes Caitlin isn't at all unpleasant—quite the contrary, if Caitlin's changed him, then surely he's changing Caitlin too, even though he's too close to her to be able to tell in which way.

He's noticed the smaller things; her humble smiles coming faster, her giggles even more so, and they've grown attached to each other. He sees her almost every day, and on the rare occasion that he doesn't, they talk to each other on the phone or over Skype. They've developed that lovely type of codependence people in relationships do, and he doesn't see that disappearing any time soon.

It would be at a time like this, then, that the universe decided to throw him for another loophole.

He spots Ronnie making his way across the quad around the same time Caitlin does.

Caitlin turns and motions her head in Ronnie's general vicinity, signaling that she'll be headed his way—and he smiles in acknowledgement.

He can be the bigger man here; he and Caitlin have been dating for almost two months now, and he figured Ronnie would come back to support the football team. There's no need for petty jealousy or insecurities.

That is until Caitlin runs up to Ronnie, and they both have the biggest smiles on their faces, and they go in for a hug immediately.

He averts his eyes. What he can't see can't hurt him. He will be the bigger man today if it kills him. Because it's still there every time, that hint of jealousy, especially now. He looks over and watches Caitlin and Ronnie talking, laughing like old times.

Iris sidles up to him. "Down boy."

Drawing in a deep breath he knows this shouldn't bother him so much, not anymore. He's proven he can be himself around Caitlin, without any pretense, without bottling up all his insecurities, and he's not going to risk getting into a fight over something as petty as his pride. Can it even be considered pride when he often thinks of himself as less than Ronnie?

"Hey," Iris calls softly. "He's not Tony."

"I know that."

"And it's not like you're not still friends with Felicity."

He looks at his best friend sideways and bites his tongue. Iris is right; he doesn't have a leg to stand on either way, and he's not in the least proud of the jealousy he feels towards Ronnie when just minutes ago Iris pointed out how obviously in love Caitlin was with him. How obviously in love he is with her.

He should be the bigger man.

Caitlin and Ronnie seem to have a lot to catch up on, so he sticks close to Iris and Eddie in favor of overanalyzing a scene he has no right to judge in the first place. The first time he and Felicity saw each other again after their break-up they ended up _making out in his bed_ of all things.

A shiver runs up his spine.

Bigger man, sure; more like hypocrite.

"Just so you know"—Cisco comes out of nowhere and throws a hand over his shoulder—"if you're planning on taking him down, I got your back."

He laughs in spite of himself, and subtly bumps fists with Cisco, both of them ignoring Hartley's unimpressed snort. He's well aware neither of them would be able to take Ronnie, should push come to shove, but it's nice to know he'd have Cisco's support.

"You guys ever get jealous?" he asks, at neither one of his friends in particular, and any positive answer would only serve as an excuse—surely not everyone is exempt this emotion; surely he's not the only one who's experienced this before.

"Barry, I'm dating a trust fund kid polyglot," Cisco deadpans, and points at himself with both index fingers as he threads backwards. "People should be jealous of me."

Like that Cisco turns on his heels and joins Iris and Eddie at the food stall.

"I get jealous," Hartley provides.

He turns his head to look at Hartley, but Hartley's eyes are intent on Cisco.

"Not of other people," Hartley says. "Cisco's blissfully unaware whenever someone else tries to flirt with him."

He smiles. It would take a wooden club to the head for Cisco to notice something that's right in front of him; for someone so smart Cisco can be terribly unaware too. But if Hartley doesn't get jealous of other guys, than what could it be?

"But when we're at his house," Hartley says, "it's hard not to be."

A familiar pang of guilt sets in his bones; he should be more careful with what he says around Hartley. For all his worries and insecurities Hartley's dealing with a lot heavier things than he ever will—Cisco might not be close to his older brother, Dante, the Ramon family's musical prodigy, but they're a close-knit family nonetheless. Even though the Ramons have come to adore Hartley, and Hartley's always welcome there, it must be hard for Hartley to not find that same connection with his own parents. The thought alone leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Don't give into it, Bartholomew," Hartley says. "You won't like what's on the other end."

No, he can't imagine he will.

.

.

This year's homecoming theme, The Homecoming Games, results in some truly magnificent floats in the parade; the marching band play their version of the movie's theme song and generally give it their all, music accompanying the entire parade, made up of floats featuring every club at the school, and one dedicated to the track team, the cheerleaders, and the football team.

Caitlin sticks close to his side, but spends her time including Ronnie in every conversation, which shouldn't bother him at all, if not for the constant reminder that he and Ronnie couldn't be more different, and don't really have anything to talk about. So Ronnie talks to Iris and Eddie, and Caitlin, and he becomes the odd fifth wheel, even though –technically- that should be Ronnie. He's spun this so many ways in his head it's hard to keep track of.

The parade is followed by a vibrant pep rally, the cheerleaders showing a bunch of new routines, and Iris is up out of her seat cheering every chance she gets. Coach Garrick closes the day's events with an inspiring speech about brotherhood, school spirit and school pride—he has everyone out of their seats applauding in no time.

"How is it," Cisco says as they're all headed to the parking lot, "that over half of these monkeys can't muster up an ounce of school spirit when the Mathletes finish first place, but the moment Coach opens his mouth they all bow down in worship?"

Caitlin purses her lips. "Charisma?"

"I got charisma," Cisco squeaks.

He and Hartley snort.

"We're headed to Big Belly Burger," Caitlin says to the entire group—they're plans they made with Iris and Eddie earlier, but he'd love to see Cisco and Hartley join as well. The six of them have never been out together so it's bound to be a fun night.

That is until Caitlin turns to Ronnie too. "Why don't you come with us?" she asks with an excited smile, but the question silences everyone all at once.

He cringes, knowing he's in part responsible for the sudden and awkward silence. That can be remedied easily enough.

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "The more the merrier."

From the corner of his eye he notices Iris and Cisco glancing his way, but he doesn't let it faze him; he'd determined to be the bigger man and that's exactly what's happening here. He won't let his jealousy dismiss Ronnie as anything other than Caitlin's friend—if he can be friends with Felicity, then Caitlin can most definitely remain friends with Ronnie.

Secretly he hopes this isn't the start of another universally bad joke.

At the restaurant they find a round table to accommodate all seven of them; he sits in between Caitlin and Iris, Ronnie next to Caitlin, Eddie next to Iris, Hartley and Cisco filling the ranks. Twenty minutes after they're seated they all have their burgers and fries or salads, and their drinks, and he has to admit, it's all rather fun.

Iris and Ronnie talk about college, and even though they don't attend the same school they attest to recognizing each other's stories of late nights writing essays, or partying, and mean professors who wouldn't move a deadline if their students' lives were in danger. Eddie tells everyone about his time at the police academy, the rigorous training schedules apparently nothing compared to what his football coach used to put him through, and the massive amounts of police codes he has to memorize. They all make it sound so very worth it, and he can't help but dream about the future too.

After dinner, Cisco and Hartley leave the group to spend some quality time together, and the rest of them decide to go down to Dairy Queen for milkshakes.

That's where things go downhill.

Ronnie, Eddie and Iris slide into one side of the booth, he and Caitlin opposite them, and as he interrogates his best friend about Linda and her class schedule, Caitlin and Ronnie get to talking amongst themselves.

"Meet any cute girls yet?" he hears Caitlin ask, his focus split now, broken, between his devoted friendship to Iris and the sickening jealousy festering in his veins.

Balling one of his hands into a fist underneath the table he recalls Caitlin's words; Ronnie had been a distraction for her, a means to escape the devastating pain her mom's death caused, and she wasn't dating him for the same reason. Caitlin liked him, and she might even be in love with him, so there's no reason for him to let this kind of jealousy in.

Ronnie winks. "One or two."

Caitlin laughs. "But it's probably a few more."

Then, Ronnie reaches across the table and takes hold of one of Caitlin's hands.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

"Are you doing okay?" Ronnie asks, just as Iris expounds on some of the mischief she and Linda had gotten up to.

Caitlin smiles, and nods, but he doesn't hear her reply; all the voices around him simmer to white noise as his eyes zoom in on Ronnie holding Caitlin's hand, and Caitlin doing nothing to dissuade him. It doesn't bother him, he _won't let it_ bother him, because he would do the same with Felicity, he wouldn't question it so he won't question this.

Until Caitlin giggles, and his lips part, and—

Iris' foot connects with his shin sharply.

He jumps, but Eddie stands up, anticipating Iris' quick reaction.

"Why don't we get everyone some more drinks?" Eddie asks, looking down at him intently. "Barry?"

Looking around the table, Iris, Ronnie and Caitlin are all staring at him, so he closes his mouth and gets up, trailing after Eddie towards the bar. Humbled, that's for sure.

What exactly had he planned on saying had Iris not intervened? That Caitlin wasn't allowed to giggle like that unless it was him coaxing it out of her?

God, he's never heard of anything more pathetic in his life.

"You okay?" Eddie asks, even though Eddie must know he's not and he probably knows as well as anyone what's going on with him. He appreciates Eddie not saying anything though.

He sighs, "It's nothing" because it's the sensible thing to say. Caitlin would never do anything to betray him—his jealousy is completely unfounded. So what if Ronnie knows Caitlin in a way he doesn't, or not yet. Big deal. His relationship with Caitlin is about the journey _they're_ on, not the one once travelled with someone else.

He could stand to repeat that a few more times.

"Barry," Eddie says, waiting for their drinks, "we're friends, right?"

"Of course."

"Any advice on how to get Joe to—" Eddie shrugs, and blushes, which isn't something he thought he'd ever witness, "like me?"

He huffs out a breath, at a loss for words. Eddie's never seemed to him like the kind of guy who needed anyone's advice, but he understands; he can't remember Joe ever liking any of the boys Iris brought home, even if there'd only been a handful—Joe never took to any of them, and Eddie happened to have the misfortune of often saying the wrong thing around Joe. Eddie reminds him of Felicity in that way.

"Iris says it doesn't bother her," Eddie says, "but I can tell it does."

He imagines if he were in Iris' shoes he'd be bothered too, but he's also not sure there's anything Eddie can do—Eddie's a stand-up guy who's good to Iris and keeps a level head; there's little not to like.

"I'm not sure there's an answer to that," he says, however much it pains him to admit that he can't help Eddie out with this. He and Joe never had this problem, because he's never looked at Iris as anything but his best friend. Or maybe it's because Joe watched him grow up alongside Iris.

Eddie laughs. "I was afraid you might say that."

When they return to the table Ronnie and Caitlin are no longer holding hands; instead, Iris and Caitlin are gossiping about a mutual friend whose name he doesn't even recognize. His eyes meet Ronnie's briefly, but discomfort crawls up the back of his neck, forcing him to look away.

He keeps his eyes locked on the table, remaining silent for the rest of the night.

So much for being the bigger man.

.

.

He and Caitlin leave a little before nine, so her dad can head into work without having to call anyone else to mind Charlie, and he's grateful to leave the Dairy Queen in his rearview mirror, and Ronnie with it. He can't stand the person Ronnie turns him into, this offensive jerk who can't keep his opinions to himself and who doesn't even have the excuse of having had too many beers.

A caveman. Unevolved and abrasive.

He parks in front of Caitlin's house, and turns off the engine—either about to follow Caitlin inside, or talk about everything that went down today. He wasn't his best and he can't expect Caitlin to ignore that, even if Ronnie will leave again in a few days.

"I think—maybe I'm just going to bed," Caitlin says, taking off her seatbelt. "You don't have to come in."

His fingers tap against the steering wheel, dreading the conversation they're about to have. "Everything okay?"

Caitlin stares dead ahead, and breathes in shallowly.

"You hardly said a word to Ronnie all night."

There it is. He's in for it now.

"You kept—" Caitlin rubs at her brow out of frustration.

"I felt— _watched_ ," she says, much louder than is necessary in the confined space of the car, her lips curling in disgust. "Like everything I said or did was under a microscope."

And he has absolutely no defense against that, because that's exactly what he was doing, so focused on _his_ girlfriend and her ex-boyfriend he might as well have been seeing red—every time he so much as thinks Ronnie's name his prototypical instincts kick in and he means to stake his claim, defend what's his.

But that's so god damn offensive.

"Why do we keep having this conversation?" Caitlin asks.

She's tried so hard, and she's been so patient. Yet he keeps begging this disappointment.

"Barry"—Caitlin turns in her seat so she faces him—"why can't you accept that Ronnie and I are still friends?"

"Am I meant to?" he asks, turning to look at Caitlin in turn, realizing too late that's probably about the last thing Caitlin wants to hear.

Something behind Caitlin's beautiful hazel eyes breaks, reflecting a kind of hurt he's never seen in her before.

"How can you ask me that when you're friends with Felicity?"

"That's not—"

"That's not the same?" Caitlin shouts. "Of course, it is, Barry. The only difference is Felicity and I are friends too."

He swallows hard; he'd hoped to say _that's not what he meant to say_ , but what's the difference? At the end of the day, what's Ronnie been to him other than a rival, cast as the villain in his knight-in-shining-armor fantasies? The few times they spoke to each other as two boys who both cared about Caitlin he can count on one hand, and that's hardly enough to constitute a friendship.

He _hates_ this.

"You're right," he admits. "I don't like him."

Honesty seems like his best bet at this point, but he hates copping to it. He can't stand the thought that Caitlin used to be with someone else and he wouldn't fare much better hearing about Felicity's new love life either—so what is it about his frail masculinity that can't help but turn these other men into villains of the narrative? That has to break them down to trite characteristics to even come close to—

Is that even what this is about? Is Ronnie the problem here?

"I hate that he's a bigger person than I am," he blurts out, "that he can see you with someone else and not—"

Not be jealous? Or be able to hide it better? He can't make sense of it, not even as he's speaking, and his fingers wire around the steering wheel. He has so little figured out outside of this perfect bubble he's creating with Caitlin and Ronnie brings that all up—he and Caitlin might be changing each other for the better, but he's still nowhere close to being in her league.

Caitlin sits back in her chair. " _Hate_ ," she whispers.

"Caitlin"—he sighs—"I'm not Ronnie."

"You're right."

There's a tightness in her voice he recognizes instantly.

"You're not," Caitlin says.

There's a glint of tears in her eyes and he _hates_ that he's the one responsible for putting them there, that he translates the hard press of her lips so easily and his eyes automatically fall to her lap, where it doesn't take long for her hands to knit together in a single tight fist.

"I'm in love with you," Caitlin hushes, the barest whisper that would've been lost had it not gotten trapped inside the car.

"What?" he asks artlessly, and if he weren't currently making her cry the words might've sparked an identical response, because of course he's in love with her too, of course he feels all this like the betrayal it is and he'd rather not feel it at all. But it's there like a dark sweltering cancer he's left untreated for far too long and he's not sure how he can possibly slow its growth. How does he stop thinking about Caitlin's past with Ronnie?

"Caitlin," he says, and turns in his seat, but as soon as he does Caitlin reaches for the door handle and gets out of the car.

He scrambles around until he escapes the car too, watching Caitlin make her way up the walkway to her house, digging around her purse for her keys. Fighting tears, no doubt.

" _Why_?" he calls, into the ether, the vacuum, the void he's sucker punched in between them without saying anything at all—he's been himself like she asked him to, and he's tried so hard to put this out of his mind, but that's infinitely easier to do with Ronnie at Ithaca. He's tried not to compete, and these past weeks it's been so easy to fall into their relationship just as it is—something new and exciting and nothing like he had with Felicity or Caitlin had with Ronnie. He knows that.

And yet there it is again. That same old question. Why him?

"Call me when you figure it out!" Caitlin shouts, and disappears into the dark house.

"Cait—" he whispers.

His vision blurs with tears, the cool night air turning his breath into a soft mist, setting icy around his bones. He knew this day would come, eventually.

He knew his insecurities would end up coming between them and breaking Caitlin's back, that his jealousy would lose him the greatest thing he ever had.

Oh no.

He turns and falls back against the car, in need of the support; he raises a hand to his forehead, clammy with sweat, and nearly throws up there and then. What the hell did he do? What on God's green earth just happened?

Did he and Caitlin— _break up_?

He looks back towards the house, completely dark even though Caitlin's dad should be getting ready to leave for work, and— but—

Oh, he can't breathe.

He crawls back into the car, and somehow manages to get home, but his vision's a blur, there's an incessant buzzing in his ear, and he's never been this aware of his own heart, a sickening erratic beat in his chest.

If anyone were listening more closely, they'd hear it beating hollow.

He sits down on his bed, gripping the edges tight, and loses all sense of things; he couldn't say what's up or down anymore, left or right. Right or wrong.

He grabs his phone and dials Caitlin's number, but his thumb hovers over the call button.

 _Call me when you figure it out_ , Caitlin had shouted, and he hasn't figured out a damn thing. He's not Ronnie, not by a long shot, and Caitlin had hinted at something deeper still. Had she meant to imply she hadn't been in love with Ronnie?

What had he been thinking, making Caitlin feel watched? _Judged_?

He never won any prize; he didn't conquer Caitlin or steal her away from Ronnie—things between Caitlin and Ronnie ran their course, and they broke up, and Caitlin admitted to having feelings for him before her break-up with Ronnie. Caitlin _chose him_ and for some unfathomable reason he's trying to sabotage that.

He has being his own worst enemy down to an art.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	13. Chapter 13

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter thirteen

.

.

That next morning, or early afternoon, he wakes up with a mouthful of cotton, drooling all over his sweater where he'd pulled it halfway over his head last night before giving up, falling back onto his bed with little hope of getting any sleep. He must've managed at least an hour or two, because he can't recall turning on his stomach at any point during the night.

The early morning sun filtering through the window has never stung quite as hard, nor have his sheets felt so coarse against his skin.

He sits up, his head big and heavy, and his eyes hurt, but not as much as his heart does. Part of him had hoped morning would prove last night nothing but a bad dream, a nightmare he might yet escape in the early light of dawn.

No such luck though. Last night did happen. All of yesterday happened. Their day had started off on such a high note, and then his insecurities had to creep in again, had to ruin a perfectly nice day. Maybe even a perfect relationship.

He checks his phone, but there aren't any messages waiting for him.

He hardly expected any.

Dragging himself out of bed takes some doing, as does undressing and stepping into the shower; he lets the water run cold for a minute before cranking up the heat—it fails to wake him up, or chase the nausea from his stomach, or make him feel better in any way. He leans his forehead against the cold bathroom tile, water running down his back, down the back of his legs.

And he whines.

How is he ever going to put this all together again?

His stomach churns and his head spins.

There has to be a way.

He gets dressed and sits down on his bed, determined to figure this out—he'd planned to do some more SAT prep but there's no way he can focus on anything other than his current predicament, so he leaves that for later.

Caitlin told him not to call before he figured out why she'd fallen in love with him, why his crushing insecurities were unwarranted in the face of the love they'd come to share, but like always, that's easier said than done. What could be so amazing about him that Caitlin had ignored his self-doubt up until now? How could she have been so good and so kind to him knowing that little voice in his head often spoke louder than his own mind?

"Barry," his dad's voice sounds from downstairs, "can you come down for a minute? Your mom and I would like a word."

He gets up without questioning it; his parents were set to leave on their weekend trip soon, so they probably wanted to go over the usual house rules—no partying or drinking in the house, no guests after midnight, do his chores, walk Krypto, and so on.

He notes the packed suitcases in the living room, a smaller tote filled with presents, and his mom's purse. Headed straight for the kitchen he comes face to face with his parents, both standing at the kitchen table, his mom nervously rubbing her hands together, his dad smiling tautly.

"What is this?" he asks cautiously. It isn't like his parents to ambush him; he hadn't told them what'd happened between him and Caitlin and he's pretty sure he's given them little reason to question him, seeing as how he hadn't seen either of them when he got home last night. Caitlin wouldn't have called here to tell them, would she?

"Sit down, son."

Realizing there's no escaping this no matter what he says he settles down at the table, his parents still standing and making no move to sit down themselves.

"If Caitlin comes over—" his dad starts.

Oh God, no. Not this again.

"Dad."

" _If_ Caitlin comes over tonight," his dad stresses, his mom like a steadfast pillar next to him, "We want you to be safe."

"I—" he starts, but gives up quickly, groaning when his dad continues on about the birds and the bees, and how boys and girls have certain 'urges' over the course of their 'courtship.' Even after all these years he can't figure out how his dad talks to his patients like this, because he's bound to deal with teen pregnancy or STIs or other things having to do with teen sexuality. How does he get by with words like 'courtship' and not lose patients?

Once his dad's finished he's nothing too subtle about pushing a box of condoms into his hands.

He'd sink through the floor if his heart weren't currently cracking a little bit more every time his parents said 'Caitlin.'

"I'll be safe." He nods, if not only to get his parents to stop talking. There's no way Caitlin's coming over tonight if he doesn't find some way to apologize first; and even then it might be a big maybe. "Of course I will."

That seems to appease his dad, because he pats him on the back and continues into the living room, where he starts gathering the bags to load into the car.

At least he won't have to worry about his parents asking too many questions about why he's acting so pitiful; he's not sure he could push the words past his teeth.

"Everything okay, honey?" his mom asks, dragging her fingers through his hair, and it serves as enough of a concern to break his resolve. He's a pitiful mess of a boy who could use some motherly love.

Tears knit into the corners of his eyes again, replaying that conversation in the car over and over. Why did he keep doing this to them? Why couldn't he allow for Ronnie's friendship? Why hadn't he simply said he loved her too? That's where all this came from; he loves her so damn much he can't see clearly.

He expels a shuddery breath, raising his hands to his face. "We had a fight."

His mom pulls up a chair next to him and sits down. "About?"

"Ronnie." He sighs.

"Barry," his mom say softly, somehow both airing her concern and disappointment, but he doesn't take it as a bad thing—it's something typically Nora Allen, and usually precedes some sage advice.

"The people we let into our lives," his mom says, "into our hearts, they will always have some power over us."

He nods. Felicity had power over him because of how they broke up—they never said it in terms that were clear enough, how they'd stop being a couple and that implied losing certain privileges. Ronnie and Caitlin clearly had that down much better, so why the hell did he get jealous? Had he unconsciously projected his own break-up with Felicity onto Ronnie and Caitlin's?

"Whether that power is good or bad depends on how you moved apart," his mom says, "but from what you told me Ronnie's a good boy. Just like you."

He sniffles. "So then—"

"Why you?" his mom asks, and smiles wide. She draws a hand through his hair, and his eyes fall shut under the weight of all that love. His mom's lips push up against his forehead. "Oh, my beautiful boy."

What would he do without his mom? How did Caitlin manage day-in day-out, juggle so many things, and still seem so put together?

"As if anyone ever has a choice in that," his mom adds, almost as an afterthought.

.

.

His parents leave for Smallville not an hour later, his mom smothering him with a most welcome hug, and some parting advice.

"Never be too proud to apologize," she said, his grandmother's words, but words he, his mom, and his dad have held true their entire lives. They're words he'd heeded less than a year ago, when he'd said all the wrong things to Caitlin at Ronnie's party, when he'd gotten drunk and voiced his jealousy too.

He didn't even have the excuse of being drunk this time around.

What would he say to her to make things right? If no one truly had a choice in who they fell in love with, he might never know why Caitlin chose him over Ronnie, why she'd had that conversation with him so many times before she gave up.

He heats up some leftover Chinese food for want of anything else; he needs to eat something or he'll pass out before long, but even as he chews and swallows every bite, the food tastes stale and ashen in his mouth.

To his left, Krypto whines.

"Don't look at me like that," he scolds, flicking a chopstick at the dog.

Had Caitlin given up on him though? He'd always believed Caitlin would head for the hills should his insecurities ever reach too far, but she hadn't run at all—she put all the cards in his hands. Why would she do that if she didn't want him to fight for her? Fight _for them_.

Of course he'll fight for them, he'll fight until his dying breath, but what could he possibly say to fix all this? That his jealousy of Ronnie really stemmed from his own strange break-up? That in his mind he can't disconnect their exes even though Felicity and Ronnie rarely even spoke?

He has to apologize. He has to grovel. He has to get down on his knees and make her see he understands they're worth it, that they're relationship is far more important than any petty rivalry, and that he'll work on that every single day if he has to. He just can't lose her.

He has to tell her he loves her too.

Yes. That's what he'll say.

He grabs his jacket and leaves the house, headed for Caitlin's. It doesn't matter why Caitlin chose him, what matters is that she did at all; she chose nerdy Barry Allen, her lab partner in crime, over a buff athletic future sports agent. Ronnie's a good guy, and his insecurity didn't make him a bad guy, but he could stand to learn a few things. Like how to act like a normal person around his girlfriend's ex.

He fears the day Felicity rolls back into town and upsets a whole other part of his sensitive constitution.

Not for the first time he rings the doorbell of the Snow residence, anxiously waiting on the doorstep.

It doesn't bode well for his overall luck today that it's Mr. Snow who answers.

He presses his lips together, lost for words. How much does Mr. Snow know?

Mr. Snow eyes him up and down, and he shrinks smaller and smaller with every second that passes. "If I had not been explicitly instructed to let you in, Mr. Allen," Caitlin's dad says, "I'd be inclined to leave you out here."

It's strange how most of those words are a relief. Caitlin still wanted to see him.

He shimmies his hands deep into his pockets. "I—"

"Come in, Barry." Mr. Snow moves aside, though his voice lacks its usual mirth. "If I had a nickel for every time my father-in-law looked like he wanted to kick my ass I'd be a very rich man."

He laughs, but he's not at all at ease. It's strange how he can return to this house again and again, and how it has a different feel to it every time; the first time he'd been excited at the prospect of a study date with Caitlin, one that would open so many doors to him, though not the ones he'd expected—or maybe, in hindsight, they had. Other times he followed Caitlin inside as if it were a second home, or a home away from home, because he'd long since realized he only needed to be around Caitlin to capture a piece of that.

Now, for the first time ever, he's terrified. What if he's not able to fix what he broke?

"Mr. Snow?" he asks, catching Caitlin's dad before he can make to the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath he toes a step closer, aware that he's about to ask a personal question that's only ever lived between father and daughter, but it's never been more relevant.

"Caitlin told me you didn't approve of Ronnie."

What makes him so different?

Mr. Snow draws in a deep breath, not unlike him. "Ronald's a good kid," he says, "and don't get me wrong, Caitlin cared for him deeply."

"But he was someone Caitlin needed at the time." Mr. Snow idles a step closer. "I don't think she realized that until you came along."

So much of what Mr. Snow said echoes Caitlin's own words, about Ronnie being a distraction, about needing someone to take her mind of her grief, of her pain, but wouldn't trivialize that pain at the same time. Of course Ronnie had meant something real to Caitlin and _of course_ she cared for him deeply; the more he hears the more he has to admit that Ronnie might've been the right person for Caitlin during that part of her life.

Why would that have changed when he 'came along'? He's—

"I've always been here," he says, confused, once again. This is their third year being lab partners; for years they'd sat side by side, working together on projects, and for years he'd been quietly pining after her.

"Caitlin hasn't, is my point," Mr. Snow says. "Not all of her."

He nods; he's never suffered a loss as great as the one Caitlin has, and he can't imagine getting broken like that, losing a part of himself when losing another person—he has nothing to compare it to. He can only accept it.

Caitlin lost her mom, but Caitlin's healing.

"Go on up," Mr. Snow says. "Time for you to grovel."

Yes, he thinks. Time to grovel. And grovel every step of the way he will—he's the one who made the mistake, he's the one incommunicative about his insecurities regarding Ronnie, so he'll be the one wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Maybe, if this goes right, who knows? This will simply have been their first fight.

The door to Caitlin's bedroom is open, and he can't help but flash back to the first time she'd dragged him in there, playing hide-and-seek with Charlie—she'd been a lot more interested in what his lips could do in combination with hers.

He peeks his head around the corner, and quickly locates Caitlin at her desk, though by the way her chair's angled he gets the impression she hasn't done a whole lot of schoolwork.

He falls sideways against the doorframe, sliding his hands into his pockets, eyes aimlessly scanning the room. He knows he has to be the one to say something right now, he has to step up and try to fix this because he's the one who broke it, but everything seems so big all of a sudden; the door making him look like a child, disproportioned against the rest of the room.

His eyes fall to his feet.

"I know you said to call."

For a moment or two his voice doesn't belong, not in Caitlin's bedroom, not this house, not anywhere near this girl whose patience he's been trying for far too long. How can he have everything he's ever wanted and still let it slip away?

But Caitlin's reply comes quick and freeing, unshackling his heart from a place down under where he never wants to let it sink again.

"I'm glad you didn't."

"I've been an idiot," he exhales in a single sentiment, so afraid Caitlin's forgiveness will be momentary and fleeting. "I do that. I mean, I get like that when—"

He draws in a deep steadying breath, surrendered to the idea that he might still lose her no matter the apology—it kills him inside, but if that's what happens he only has himself to blame; his insecurities weigh so heavy on this thing they're building and it has to stop if he wants to keep Caitlin in his life.

"Only around you, really," he says. "I keep thinking I have to be everything Ronnie meant to you without really knowing what that was."

It's a tale she's heard before, how he means to measure up, how he wants to compete with the awfully tall order of _every single moment of every single day_ despite the fact that she's been healing. He can never be what Ronnie was to her, he can't serve as a distraction or a band-aid to her earliest grief because that's no longer there. And he's never longed to be Ronnie, either.

Caitlin looks up at him, eyes narrowing. "Did you ever take Felicity to the aquariums?"

His lips part, but the 'no' that pushes up against his teeth is a lie he can't bring himself to use—Caitlin deserves better than that. Even if she hadn't gotten that information from Felicity he's in no position to be caught in a lie; he won't have that taint his already bruised and battered Nice Guy shtick.

"I did." He nods, and takes a step inside the room. "I thought it could be fun for Charlie."

"It was fun," Caitlin agrees. "We had the time of our lives. But don't pretend it didn't start out as yours and Felicity's thing."

Somewhere in their past he hears his own voice echo, _It was Ronnie, wasn't it? Ronnie's the one who took you ice-skating the first time_ , and not for the first time does he see the hypocrisy in all this. He wasn't disrespecting his relationship with Felicity by taking Caitlin and Charlie to the aquariums, nor had he meant to erase her memories of ice-skating with Ronnie the day he took her out to _The Ring_. Yet somehow he'd found a way to make it about their exes rather than them.

Caitlin stands, and he sees her own insecurities reflected in her eyes—self-doubt and guilt, their past with other people in a knapsack on their backs, because how could it not? Ronnie and Felicity are a part of them they can't undo, and neither of them would if given the chance; Felicity and Ronnie are who they needed to come together like this now.

"We've both dated people we still care about, Barry," Caitlin says, and he hears his mother's words ring in his ears. "You think I don't get jealous, or worry about that?"

"You never said anything."

"Because I choose to trust you."

He shoots a step forward. "I trust you," he blurts out, caught in a whiplash sensation that hurts him to the bone, because if he makes her feel like that then this has got to stop, he has to put this behind him because he trusts Caitlin in every way, even around Ronnie. Has he been trying so hard to measure up to Ronnie he hasn't noticed her trying to do the same?

Caitlin pulls at the sleeves of her sweater. "It doesn't always feel like that to me."

"I'm sorry"—he blinks, his heartbeat a pitiful dull thudding through his veins, running thick with disappointment—"I never meant to make you feel that way. I'm just—"

 _What is he_? What's he trying to say? He claims he's been trying to measure up to Ronnie but it's more than that; he wants to be good enough for Caitlin Snow, the girl of his every fantasy, a girl he's put on a pedestal for years, a girl he's loved from a distance, and now that he has her this close he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. Juggling different and disproportionate selves.

"It's not about Ronnie, not really," he says, and saunters over to the bed, plunking down as he says perhaps the one thing he should never say, "Sometimes—I feel like I'm competing with you."

Caitlin's eyes widen. "Me?"

"You have so much figured out, Cait," he says, meeting her eyes with great difficulty. "College, and your life here. You like plans, and you stick to them."

Wasn't this his problem with Felicity too? His envy over her clear choices, the decisions that were so easy for her to make while he still flailed over every step he's taking? Yet, somehow, this is the relationship he wants to fight for. This is the one he refuses to let slip between his fingers.

"You're perfect." He averts his eyes, and sighs. "I'm a mess compared to you."

Caitlin huffs a mournful laugh, staring down at her hands.

"I'm not perfect."

It's the greatest lie of all, if ever he heard any.

Then, Caitlin offers him her heart in return.

"I have—quiet panic attacks when Charlie acts out, or when I can't find the time to study," she says. "I yell at people over the smallest things, including my dad, even though I know he tries so hard to make sure Charlie and I have a good life."

Standing there, the girl of his dreams becomes a little smaller too, a bit more fragile again, but over things he's never heard her talk about. She hides her pain so well; it shouldn't come as a surprise she's kept this from him too.

Caitlin sits down next to him. "I worry about not being good enough for you."

"Why?" he asks, that same word but warranted this time, because what on earth would have her worried she isn't his be all end all?

"You're warm, Barry." Caitlin looks at him sideways, pushing their shoulders together.

He really doesn't like thinking of her as cold. He likes it even less that she seems to see herself that way, or that seeking out her supposed opposite is what led her to him—surely she must see that when it comes to family and friends, they're no different at all.

"You're this ball of energy that doesn't stop," Caitlin says, "And yet you somehow manage to slow me down and look around at what I have."

He can't think of a single thing to say to that.

"I haven't done that in a long time."

Caitlin takes hold of his hand, slotting her fingers in between his. It's the first moment since he walked through the door downstairs he's found himself able to breathe. He needs her in his life in ways he's never needed anyone before—it's not disrespectful to what he had with Felicity to admit that; there's a reason they didn't try a long distance relationship. There's a reason they never fought for what they had.

"But I'm not anything like you."

"That's not the point, though, is it?" He scrunches his nose. "Being the same?"

Caitlin shrugs. "Opposites attract."

They share a laugh.

They're not that dissimilar; they both worry about the same strange things, like not being good enough for each other, or their past relationships that don't even come in to play when it's the two of them, when they're drowning in each other's eyes, when they're so drunk in love they can't see the rest of the world spinning around them.

What's stranger yet is that they've never talked about this in depth, how they see each other, what they need from each other, or what made them fall in love.

"I'm in love with you too," he whispers, something he should have said in the car yesterday, something he shouldn't have omitted simply because the timing wasn't convenient.

Caitlin smiles and pushes a kiss to this lips, and another, and another, until they're pressed tight together in a hug.

"I'm so sorry," he mutters into her shoulder.

There they are then, a real boy and a real girl shedding their masks, seeing each other for who they are for the first time ever, no pedestals skewing their lines of sight. He's projected his image of the ideal girl on her for so long he never bothered to look at her properly, like the cute nerd she is, the hard-working student who practically runs a household on her own, or like the mom she was forced to become. Who's he to say what an ideal girl should look like, anyway?

"I heard what my dad said."

Caitlin pulls back and her eyes trace down his face, down to his chest, where she starts playing her fingers against his shirt.

"I don't like thinking of Ronnie that way, but—" Her lips press together in a tight line, before a secret smile slips to a corner of her mouth, "that day, in the library, when you asked me to study with you?"

How could he forget? The air-conditioning buzzing somewhere in a corner of the room, his legs spread wide underneath the table, Caitlin sinking into a chair opposite him with such grace it took his breath away. He still couldn't say what came over him that day, what made him stammer out that question, but it set so many things in motion.

"Yeah?"

Caitlin's fingers draw small circles over his chest. "That's when you came along."

A single breath shakes out of him. How does he respond to something like that? How can he accept that Caitlin started feeling something for him that day and not mentally stick out his tongue at the villainous version of Ronnie? How can he not think he won the girl, long ago?

"You don't believe me?"

He laughs. "No, I do. Everything's just—"

Caitlin's eyes are so big and beautiful. "What?"

"Better," he says, and huffs another laugh. "Everything's better with you."

Caitlin brings their foreheads together, but he swoops down to kiss her nose, and she shakes her head, giggling.

.

.

Later that night they go out to catch the game together, and he and Caitlin don't leave each other's side the whole time—they sit on the bleachers in between Cisco and Hartley to their left, and Iris and Eddie to their right. One of Caitlin's legs lies slung over one of his. It isn't the most comfortable position, especially not when they're cheering at every point the football team scores, but they make do.

Caitlin kisses him and cuddles up close, or sits chatting with Hartley, and more than once he catches Cisco's eyes over their significant others' shoulders, signaling, _What happened, dude?_ but that's definitely a story for later, if ever. He wouldn't want to jinx anything. All he wants is to have Caitlin close and to forget about all the ugliness.

Which leads him down one clear path.

There's one other person he wronged in all of this.

"Ronnie," he calls, catching the former quarterback on his way to his car, while the rest of their merry band argues about where to head for dinner. Iris wanted Chinese; Cisco craved Italian food; they might still be at it by the time he finishes his conversation with Ronnie.

Ronnie stops at the sound of his name, and turns, drawing in a deep breath once he notices it's him coming his way. He reckons he deserves that.

"Look, I wanted to apologize for the way I've been acting," he says as fast and as honestly as he can. "I haven't been fair to you."

Ronnie looks at Caitlin over his shoulder—following his gaze he watches Caitlin talking to Iris, her eyes skipping to them from time to time. It isn't important to him that Caitlin sees him do this; it's something he needs for his own peace of mind.

"You say that to her?" Ronnie asks.

"Yeah," he breathes. "We talked."

"You mean you fought, and then you talked." Ronnie smiles, and holds out his right hand as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

He must research it from time to time: How To Be the Bigger Man.

"Apology accepted," Ronnie says.

Determined that it's the right thing to do, for Caitlin, Ronnie, and himself, he shakes Ronnie's hand. It might still be a while before the worst of it is over, or before he comes to terms with exactly how big a tool he can be sometimes, but it's a step in the right direction.

"How's Ithaca?" he asks, lingering by Ronnie's side, reluctant to join the dinner discussions; he learned a long time ago not to question Iris' appetite.

"Aww, it's great, man," Ronnie says. "I thought I'd have a hard time getting my bearings, you know? No friends. No family."

Ronnie touches on a lot of things he hasn't even started to worry about; he's so consumed by the SATs and applications he can't imagine what it'll be like leaving home. His parents would be there for him whenever he needed them, and he'd talk to Iris all the time, but he'll still be on his own.

"No Caitlin," Ronnie adds belatedly.

He laughs. "She keeps you grounded, doesn't she?"

Wait. Are they actually bonding?

"You're a lucky guy, Barry."

He nods, averting his eyes.

He is a lucky guy. He could stand to remember that more often.

Barry: 0

Ronnie—

He's lost count.

Ronnie leaves in his car, probably on his way to celebrate with some old friends, and he closes the distance between him and Caitlin again, locking their hands together.

Caitlin stands on tiptoe, and kisses his cheek. "Thank you."

"I've been—so terrible," he says and takes her hand, walking to the car. "I just—"

It all still weighs heavy, and he reckons it'll take longer still before he can reconcile his inner green demon with the kind of boy he likes to think he is. "I never want to make you feel like I don't trust you, Caitlin," he says. "I'm crazy about you, and—"

They stop at his car.

"That makes you go a little crazy sometimes?" Caitlin supplies, and throws her arms around his neck. "It's okay, Barry Allen." She beams. "I'll make sure you keep that ego of yours in check."

Not for the first time he thinks he doesn't at all deserve her, but he's determined to ignore thoughts like that from now on. He's going to be the best version of him he can possibly be, and talk to Caitlin when something is bothering him.

It's lucky they seem to be stuck with each other, then.

"What are we getting?" he asks, watching Iris and Eddie leave in her car, Hartley and Cisco in the backseat.

Caitlin tilts her head, eyes narrowing.

" _Chinese food_ ," they say in unison, laughing as they get into the car.

.

.

Their night fills with fun and friends and laughing at some people's poor skills eating with chopsticks; he, Hartley, and Caitlin in particular. To Caitlin's credit, she's never tried before, and he isn't the best teacher, but he has the time of his life trying to lay the sticks between her fingers just right, any food she manages to scoop up falling back to her plate each time. Knowing Caitlin, she'll probably have it down pat after practicing.

By the time they make it back to his house it's so late they decide to go straight to bed. Caitlin staunchly refuses to sleep in the guest room and sneaks into the bathroom without allowing him another word, changing into her pajamas—he tries not to think about his gorgeous girlfriend taking off her clothes in a room where he's been naked, but fails.

It brings to mind the conversation he had with his parents this morning, and he shakes his head, laughing. He knows how to be safe, he's known that for years, but he also knows how to be respectful—he isn't sad this isn't happening, because at least they didn't break up. Today's been such a crazy rollercoaster ride, and he could do with a little calm, something that will decidedly cease should Caitlin want to take her clothes _off_ in front of him.

No, their first time will happen when it happens, when they're both good and ready, and maybe when they've had a less emotionally laden day. All that matters now is that they're together, that they talked about things that really mattered, and have undoubtedly come out stronger.

What more could he want?

Some of that question is definitely answered once Caitlin makes it out of the bathroom, wearing pajama shorts, and a new Star Wars t-shirt.

His jaw drops.

"Iris helped me pick it out." Caitlin beams, all pride and smiles, and he's left speechless as she walks over, folding her arms around his neck. "You like it?"

He nods rather dumbfounded.

"Come to bed," Caitlin whispers, and pushes a quick kiss to his lips, before she tiptoes over to his bed, pulls back the sheets, and crawls beneath them. Caitlin Snow, his beautiful girlfriend is in _his bed_ , waiting to sleep next to him. How did he ever get so lucky?

Caitlin throws a pillow at him. " _Hurry up_ , Barry Allen."

He laughs, and does as he's told, quickly changing into his own pajamas, a boring gray ensemble compared to Caitlin's thoughtful outfit.

"Do you think we can make pancakes in the morning?" Caitlin asks once he joins her in the bedroom again, snuggled comfortably under the sheets and onto the pillow. He could stare at her like this for hours and never grow tired.

"I don't see why not."

He slips into bed next to Caitlin, already picturing her in the kitchen—a big Sunday breakfast has been a tradition at his house since he was a little boy, and to now get to share it with someone he loves—what more could he ask for?

"I'm not much of a cook though."

"Don't worry." Caitlin smiles, and pulls closer. "I'll teach you well."

Stretching his arm underneath her pillow, Caitlin lies down on his shoulder, and he brings his lips to her forehead, breathing in deeply.

He is exactly where he needs to be.

"We crossed off a first yesterday," Caitlin says, her fingers tiptoeing up his arm.

"We did?"

"Our first fight," Caitlin whispers, as if the word itself might still send them back down the rabbit hole.

He kisses her forehead, and her nose, and then her lips, pinching at her side to draw a squeal out of her, and holds her tight in his arms. He won't let this slip away again; he can't wait for the following weeks and months, maybe even years, and all the other firsts yet to come.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	14. Chapter 14

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter fourteen

.

.

Fall breaks through from one day to the next, ringing in one of Caitlin's favorite seasons, second only to winter and its pristinely white snowy days. It's held something special for him too ever since he was a little boy—the first sip of hot tomato soup and his grandma's knit sweaters, the crisp air almost too chilly to breathe, and the scent of a match being lit, burning a hot fiery orange.

On his bed, Caitlin curls into him like a little ball and giggles to his lips, begging warmth and comfort before her lips find his again, and like it's happened so many times before their kisses grow more heated. Gone is the soft pillowed press of Caitlin's mouth and in its stead come sweet but greedy kisses, slender fingers that card through his hair and tug from time to time, as if trying to tug at his heartstrings themselves.

Caitlin unfolds and settles pliantly against his body, one of his legs sneaking between hers, fingers digging through her luscious curls—and while he's desperate to catch his breath, while huge parts of his body are begging to take their relationship to the next level, he keeps doing exactly what they've been doing for weeks.

Until they hear Krypto barking downstairs.

"Your mom's home," Caitlin whispers, as if his mom's clueless as to where they are, or what they could be getting up to. There's a reason he got the 'be safe' speech again not that long ago; his parents can see how serious they're getting, how much time they're spending together, and exactly how infatuated he's becoming.

He releases an even breath, brushing a long strand of Caitlin's hair behind her ear, and drowns in her deep brown eyes. Nothing has ever rivaled the certainty he feels when Caitlin's in his arms, when she's pressed up against him and gives and takes—he wants everything he's dreamed about with her and more; all the big firsts, prom and graduation, college, and not for the first time he recalls waking up next to her a little over a week ago. His Sunday morning had consisted of opening his eyes and watching the girl of his dreams fast asleep next to him, her body warming his sheets, and waking her up with a few cheeky kisses.

Caitlin smooths a hand down his chest, coming around to his waist where she teases the tips of her fingers under his shirt—it makes his stomach flip-flop and his skin prickle and does decidedly less mentionable things to other parts of his body.

"Do you think—" Caitlin says, eyes skipping down to what her hand's doing.

For a moment or two he can't decipher her thoughts, or what she's trying to say, but he's left to wonder if he puts her body through the same kind of torture she begs from his, pleasurable as it is.

"What?"

Caitlin rolls onto her back and shakes her head, smiling as she does so. "Nothing."

Does he think that the next step is something they should talk about? He's not sure. He's not sure of a lot of things in this particular area, and that starts a whole different kind of nervous—they've reached a point where they're comfortable with each other, each other's bodies to some degree, and all their wonderful quirks. He's learned how to be himself, how to let go of his jealousy, and how to accept that he's the boy Caitlin wants to be with.

But what does he know about sex, other than how to have it? He doesn't know how to talk about it with his friends, let alone his girlfriend, or if this is a conversation they need to have in the first place. Maybe that'll work itself out. Maybe they'll get to a point where there's no more denying their passion and desire for each other and they'll simply fall into that situation.

What if he's no good at it?

"Come on." Caitlin shoots up. "Time for some more practice tests."

He sits up, his pants somewhat too tight for comfort—there's no way he's standing up in his current state. Girls get away with his far easier.

"You go ahead."

Caitlin bites at her lip, her eyes big with something indefinable. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He nods. "I'll be right down."

Fortunately Caitlin doesn't pry any further, though he's certain she has some idea what's going on with him. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and breathes in deep, conjuring thoughts that don't include his girlfriend in any shape, way, or form. _Puppies_. _Kittens_. _Razor burn_. _Plucking hair out of the drain_.

He draws a hand down his face and laughs; he's probably looking at a few more cold showers in the near future, but what does it matter, when he's madly in love with his girlfriend?

.

.

For the fall holidays they go on a three-day camping trip with Charlie. The little boy is more energized than he's ever seen him; jumping around before they leave, singing songs in the backseat of the car, and running ahead of them in the forest as they make their way to the campsite. Caitlin's dressed for the occasion, in jeans' shorts and a new blue hoodie, firm walking shoes on her feet, and she's marching along as if she's been camping for years. It'll never cease to amaze him how much of her own discomforts she can put aside for Charlie's sake, or maybe, in this case, for his too.

The campsite's a small clearing underneath some tree coverage not far from a narrow stream, large enough to pitch their tents and set up their gear; there's a pre-existing hole dug for a campfire, and three logs arranged around it for sitting.

"You used to do this a lot with your dad?" Caitlin asks, helping him lay down a tarp for the tent and all the tent's components. To their right, Charlie's trying to do the same with his smaller tent—he suspects he'll need their help before long.

"Yeah. He did it a lot with his dad."

"Why did you stop?"

"It's been hard for him since my grandpa died."

His chest weights with a longing for those camping trips; in his five-year old mind his dad was a veritable MacGyver, teaching him how to tie a fishing hook, how to start a fire by simply knocking two magical stones together. Some nights they'd sleep under the open night sky and make up stories about the stars.

Each and every one of those trips was a life-altering experience for him, so he understands Charlie's excitement.

"Sort of—miss it, actually," he admits, because Caitlin would never make fun of him for missing something that'd been such an integral part of his childhood. These are things he loves sharing with her, pieces of a larger puzzle that make up his past.

"We should invite our dads along sometime then."

He catches Caitlin's eyes in time with his, "Really?" and watches her eyebrow quirk with that spark that signals their thoughts are in perfect synchrony. Yes, he can see it; their dads right alongside them helping them with the tents, becoming friends. How amazing would it be if their two small families became one big family simply because he and Caitlin are dating?

"Of course," Caitlin says. "It'll be fun. You and your dad. Charlie and our dad."

"And an excuse for you to stay home," he supplies. Camping isn't his girlfriend's favorite pass time, he reckons it's too messy for her taste, but she loves Charlie too much to deny him his camping trips too.

She's remarkable, this girl of his.

Caitlin giggles. "There is that."

Connecting the tent poles and inserting them into the right flaps, he raises the tent up into a proper shape, recalling moment upon moment with his dad. Would it take much to convince his dad to come along? Would Mr. Snow be able to make it work with his schedule?

He glances at Charlie, struggling with his own poles. "Are you sure we should be giving him his own tent?"

It's not that he worries Charlie will be any trouble, but he does scare easily, and in the forest there are plenty of things to scare a kid like him.

"This one's big enough for three."

"He made a 'consecutive' decision," Caitlin says, adding the appropriate air quotations, and smiles fondly. "His words."

He chuckles.

"Don't count on sleeping alone tonight, though."

No. He figured as much.

Soon after he and Charlie set out into the forest to collect some wood for the fire, fallen leaves crunching beneath their feet. Before they manage to find anything that'll help the fire going tonight, they happen upon two long branches and pretend they're lightsabers, adding their own sound effects as they run through the woods; Charlie the Jedi Knight fighting for justice in the galaxy, he the evil Sith Lord hell-bent on destruction.

"Barry?" Charlie asks afterwards, carrying the pile of sticks they gathered.

"Yeah, buddy."

"Do you think if I find a doggy in the forest Caity will let me keep it?"

"I doubt we'll find any dogs, Charlie," he says. "They don't live in the wild over here."

"Where do they?"

"Africa, maybe."

Charlie throws his head back to look at him. "Can you take me to Africa?"

He laughs and ruffles through the little boy's hair. "Your dad and sister would never let me do that."

Charlie pouts and hangs his head, kicking at the muddy undergrowth. In that brief moment he recognizes his younger self begging his parents to get him a dog—he asked for years, read books on how to take care of them and how to train them, even saved the dollars his grandma gave him for Christmas to give to a certified training center. He still had to wait until his eighth birthday before his parents deemed him old enough to take care of a dog. He's certain his parents knew what was best, but Charlie's frustration still feels familiar.

"But, you know"—he squats next to Charlie, determined to meet him on his turf so that Charlie can see how seriously he takes him—"since we're brothers and all, Krypto's kind of your dog too."

The few choice words cheer Charlie up instantly; he drops his sticks and jumps up into his arms, and it's all he can do to keep both of them from toppling to the ground. He lifts Charlie off the ground and throws him over his shoulder, carrying him back to the campsite.

"Barry, no-o-o," Charlie giggles uncontrollably, kicking his short legs around, "Let me go-o-o."

Caitlin's eyes go wide when she sees –and hears- her two boys surfacing from the woods, and the smile that skims over her mouth is unmistakably giddy. "What's all this?"

"This—" He puts Charlie down, the boy winding his arms around both his legs, "—is brotherly bonding."

Caitlin rises on her toes and pushes a kiss to his lips. "And the firewood?"

He looks down at Charlie. "Shoot!"

"I'll go get it!" Charlie beams and speeds back into the woods, leaving him to chase after their little Flash yet again.

That night, after hot tomato soup and sandwiches, they get out the flashlights and everything they need to make s'mores. The fire snaps and crackles, and an owl hoots somewhere nearby, the perfect setting for some scary storytelling. Charlie curls into Caitlin's side while he tries his best not to make the stories too scary—he wouldn't want Charlie to have nightmares. The fire provides enough heat to keep them warm, and the embers of it burn in Caitlin's eyes; accompanied with her soft smile they might as well be hearts, directed at him solely.

Could he love this girl any more?

Later, after they tuck in Charlie and change into their pajamas, he catches Caitlin in her sleeping bag, pensively staring up at the ceiling of the tent, lost in thought.

"Penny for your thoughts," he says, crawled into his own sleeping bag.

"I was just thinking about Charlie"—Caitlin smiles and leans up on an elbow—"and how great you are with him."

"I can't take all the credit for that," he says, while stifling any thoughts of Ronnie and how great he might have been with Charlie—he's made a vow not to think about Ronnie when he's with Caitlin, and he's succeeded for the most part.

Sometimes, he still falters.

He's known Charlie long enough to know he's changed, that he's opened up and dealt with his mom's death as best as a boy his age can, and that he's lucky to have seen that evolution; but he can hardly be credited for it.

"He's letting me in."

"I think that has as much to do with the time he's had as it does with you."

"You're—" He smiles, "entitled to your beliefs."

Caitlin pokes a finger at his chest. "You're a goof."

He laughs, "Another thing I have in common with your brother", but then they're kissing and he's pulling Caitlin closer, and can't find much else to agree or disagree with anymore. He can stand to be thought of as a goof if it's Caitlin calling him that.

Ten minutes later, Charlie's at their tent's entrance, asking if he can't sleep in between them, too scared to sleep all alone in his own tent.

Neither he nor Caitlin object.

When they wake up to the pitter-patter of rain on the flysheet the next morning they don't let it ruin their day. They remain in their PJs for hours, eating cereal in the tent, reading Charlie stories, and playing board games they'd packed for this particular occasion.

Their last night, the sky cleared of dark clouds and the stars come out, they find a spot in a clearing where the trees don't hinder their view, and all lie down next to each other. Caitlin's in his arms and Charlie's in hers, and they read the stars like braille—recounting the myth of Cassiopeia and her fall from grace, Andromeda's sacrifice, and Perseus' gallant rescue.

It's nothing short of a perfect night, the perfect end to an amazing trip they're bound to make again, with or without their dads.

"I love you, Barry Allen," Caitlin whispers, and a world of stars bursts open in his chest, on the dark side of his eyelids, and along every memory they've shared up until now. He's exactly where he needs to be, with the people he'll have in his life for years to come. He knows it.

He kisses Caitlin's hair. "I love you too, Caitlin Snow."

.

.

Pumpkins show up at the neighbors' front doors and dot their front yards in patches, comically carved out faces smiling back at them whenever they walk past. Other decorations join the closer it gets to Halloween—jack-o'-lanterns and skeletons, all types of _memento mori_ to get a good chill out of people.

Each year, without fail, it's like the neighborhood gets obsessed with having the best Halloween decorations, so no front yard is ever the same as the previous year.

His parents take him, Caitlin and Charlie hunting for the perfect pumpkins—apparently the Snows never decorated much for Halloween, and most of their Halloweens consisted of trick-or-treating, but his mom determines to change that. He thinks it's really an excuse for his mom to show off two front yards rather than one, but he won't argue that with her.

"My wife hated Halloween," Mr. Snow tells them all later, overlooking their loot in the kitchen. "Our third date I took her to see a scary movie."

Mr. Snow looks down at his son. "Mom nearly threw up all over me."

"Yuck," Charlie exclaims.

Caitlin cocks an eyebrow, placing a tray with four cups of hot chocolate on the kitchen table. "I'm sure you're exaggerating."

"You jest, you lady," Mr. Snow says, "but you got this close to never existing."

This coaxes a laugh out of his beautiful girlfriend.

All week he and Caitlin had been watching horror movies – _the Conjuring_ , _Sinister_ , _Insidious_ \- one scarier than the other. Like her mom, Caitlin wasn't a big fan of the genre, so he filed that away for next year—though, if she continues to knit into his body every time the music swells, grab a handful of his sweater at every jump scare, maybe they can watch at least one horror movie every year.

He can scarcely believe he's thinking in terms of years.

"What was your first date like?" Caitlin asks, settling next to him at the table.

"I took her out to dinner, of course," Mr. Snow says. "Your grandma gave me very specific instructions. Bring flowers. Greet her parents, your grandparents. Open the car door for her."

Caitlin rests her chin in the palm of her hand, smiling. "Sounds like grandma, alright."

"And I'll tell you what else," Mr. Snow points at Caitlin. "Your mom _expected_ all that. She was grading me all night. I was terrified."

"I should've done the same to Barry." Caitlin laughs, and squeezes his leg underneath the table as she looks at him. "Maybe you wouldn't have forgotten my flowers."

His cheeks heat up, as they're want to do when Caitlin talks about them in front of her father, a man who's approval he's been desperate for since day one—a man who's approval he has, to a certain extent, but he's still a boy his daughter's dating, and he's still a guest in his house. He shouldn't push his luck.

He shrugs. "Missed opportunity."

Charlie blows into his mug, impatient to drink his hot chocolate.

As much as he loves Halloween itself, the trick-or-treating, the scary movies, and the costumes parties, nothing quite compares to the way it smells; hot fruity sugar and cinnamon, honey and hazelnut, caramel in his coffee, and his mom's apple pie—and now, Caitlin's hot chocolate too.

"I love it when dad talks about her," Caitlin muses later in her room, storing her books inside her desk while he settles on her bed, something he's done many times before.

Learning about Caroline Snow through the eyes of others is the closest he'll ever get to knowing her, so it was nice to hear Mr. Snow talk about wife. It's not the first time he's heard Caitlin's dad talk about her mom either—not too long ago he'd stood in the doorway hoping he hadn't messed up his relationship, and Mr. Snow talked about his wife openly, without prompting, and without any reservation.

"Charlie needs it," Caitlin adds, almost as an afterthought, and stares at the picture of her mom on her nightstand.

"You need it too."

This earns him a smile.

He would listen to Caitlin talk about her mom for hours if it's what she needed, and he can't deny he hasn't been curious about aspects of her personality. Was she ever perceived as cold too by people who didn't know her? Did she help Caitlin out with her homework when she was younger? Did she have a holiday she sacrificed all her time to so that it would be perfect?

Caitlin scoots his way on the bed. "She'd be driving me crazy right about now, about college and admissions," she says, settling back in his arms. "She saw my future a lot more clearly than I did."

He touches his lips to Caitlin's hair, and tries to imagine her as freaked out as him over everything that needed to be in order for a proper application, over all the essays and interviews, over having to choose when there were so many options out there.

It's not an image he can rhyme with Caitlin.

"She was my Number One fan," Caitlin says.

He hums to signal that he's listening, but remains silent—he wants to respect this space Caitlin has all of a sudden allotted to talk about her mom, something so rare he's afraid of ruining the moment should he say that he's her Number One fan all the same—given his own predilection towards panicking, he may not be able to hound her about college, but he still wants her to achieve her dreams.

"She wanted to be a doctor, you know."

"What stopped her?"

"My grandparents didn't have the money." Caitlin shrugs, and turns in his arms. "She worked hard to put herself through nurse's training. That's where she met my dad. I don't think she ever regretted her choices."

His eyes rake over Caitlin's face, in them a sort of bitter sweetness that accompanies a lot of her memories of her mom. Rationally he knows he shouldn't wish a loss like hers on himself, but in moments of inattention he can't help it, because he'd understand Caitlin so much better. Love has clearly spun him into an idiot too.

"My mom always talks about regret like it's the worst thing in the world."

"She does?"

"She told me I'd regret never asking you out," he says, vaguely recalling a conversation about him being too young to have regrets, so he should ask Caitlin out as quickly as possible. "She was right."

Caitlin smiles. "I'm glad you never had to find out."

"You being an old-fashioned girl, and all."

"You heard my dad"—Caitlin giggles—"I get that from my mom."

He leans down and steals a kiss or two, the both of them quickly adjusting their position on the bed so they can meet each other better—he's half draped over Caitlin's body and one of her legs slips between his; they'll have to shift positions again if this gets any more heated.

"Are you wearing a new perfume?" He pulls back, Halloween permeating with a warm and woody scent.

Caitlin beams, "You can tell?" and points at a purple perfume bottle in the shape of a flower, sat on her dresser. "Something new for winter."

His eyes draw down to her lips, still set in a smile, the same one that slips to the corners of his own mouth; she doesn't need to say it in any clear terms, how the perfume may be new to Caitlin the bottle isn't, and probably used to be her mom's.

It's remarkable how he can read it in her face, without her having to use any words.

.

.

On All Hallow's Eve, Charlie makes him dress up as his latest obsession –Green Arrow- while Caitlin sticks with her tried and true nurse's outfit. They make an odd trio, trick-or-treating like two vigilantes with their personal physician in tow, but the whole night's a resounding success.

.

.

He takes his SATs in the school's gym, overheated for the time of year they're in, but it doesn't hinder his concentration. Part of him feels like he's been working towards this test for a whole year, and thanks to Caitlin's help he's as prepared as he can possibly be, so he's a healthy amount of nervous once he starts. He can do this; he's good at this, and he has to give it his all if he wants the bright future he dreams about. His SAT scores will be one of the things colleges will look at first on his transcripts, and if he hopes to get into the big schools, like MIT or Cornell, he'll have to score higher than the national average.

Caitlin scored an impressive 1500, and he has no desire to compete with that score, but it would be nice to rank somewhere in the vicinity. This is his future, and while that hasn't been something he's been actively chasing, Caitlin's ambitions ignited his own—imagine if he gets into the schools of his choice, imagine him going to college and finding his purpose and having teachers like Dr Wells to inspire him. He could accomplish so much.

A whopping five hours later, Caitlin's waiting for him outside on the parking lot.

"How'd it go?" she asks, flinging her arms around his neck.

He scoops her up and carries her to the car, her legs swinging free. "It went really well."

"You know why?"

"Because of your expertise guidance?"

Caitlin's hands on his chest send chills up his spine. One of these days she's going to make him crawl out of his own skin, touching him like this, and they'll need to have that conversation about taking their relationship to the next level.

For now, he'll suffer in silence.

Caitlin touches a finger to his nose. "And don't you forget it," she says, before his lips close over hers.

After sitting still for so long he's happy to be able to stretch his legs and get some fresh air, even if it means finishing up raking the leaves in the garden. Luckily, he has his trusty sidekick with him, Charlie Snow, also known as the fastest boy alive.

Caitlin's inside the house finishing up some homework, and probably busy mocking up a schedule to start studying for midterms—ever studious, his girl, and who can blame her? Their future is so close they can almost taste it; six months from now they'll have chosen a college to attend, and—

They'll need to have The Talk. Will they stay close together? Or will distance separate them? The thought of not being able to see Caitlin whenever he wants chills him to the bone.

Caught unaware, Charlie pushes him into the pile of dead leaves they gathered; thankfully they cushion his blow.

"Aha!" Charlie puts his arms up.

"And once again The Flash saves the city from the evil Professor Zoom!" Caitlin calls from the back porch, slowly making her way over.

"Alright, you got me."

He raises his hands in surrender, lying back against the leaves—he's lucky they're dry or Caitlin might give Charlie an earful, and he hates to be the reason the little boy gets in trouble. It's all innocent play, and it's not like he hasn't encouraged it.

"But wait," he says, and sits up, "what about Killer Frost and her icy touch?"

The corners of Caitlin's mouth pull down and she puts up her hands, stuffed deep into the sleeves of her thick sweater. "She has nothing to do with this."

"Oh"—he laughs—"I disagree," he says, and makes a sudden grab for Caitlin. She screams and lands on top of him, shaking with laughter even as she struggles to find her bearings.

"Watch it, Professor Zoom." Caitlin raises herself up on both arms. "Your speed's no match for my icy touch."

"I'm shaking in my boots." He smiles, brushing her curls back behind her shoulder.

Fall looks so beautiful on her; her cheeks kissed red, the deep auburn of her hair returning in the rust of the leaves, burnt red and gold, mahogany and terracotta. He meets her halfway for a kiss—Caitlin comes with him, lying down on top of him, the rest of the world fading around them. It could come to an end right now and neither of them would notice.

"Ewww." Charlie covers both his hands over his face. "Killer Frost and Zoom don't do that."

"Who told you that?" Caitlin shakes with laughter, leaving him no space to breathe before she finds his lips again.

For the time being he's quite content to ignore Caitlin's little brother in favor of her weight on him, leaves dwindling down in the soft autumn breeze, a whispery backdrop of sounds.

Until Charlie starts pushing at the both of them, putting so much of his weight into it he manages to move his sister out of the way—so he reaches out and pulls Charlie down too.

"Oh no!" he shouts, pinching at Charlie's sides. "How did The Flash forget about Zoom's amazing power of... tickle torture?!"

Charlie cackles and crashes down on top of him, trying to tickle back, but his jacket proves too thick and Charlie's fingers are too short and not strong enough for the task.

Somehow, Caitlin escapes both their grasps, cunning like the real Killer Frost, but that hardly matters once he starts chasing Charlie through the backyard. This is exactly what he needed after this morning's unnecessary stress, test out his limbs' limits by trying to catch his girlfriend's little brother, help out Caitlin around the house—anything to distract his busy mind for a while.

If Charlie's squealing and laughter are anything to go by, he's doing an excellent job at keeping the boy entertained too.

"You know you'll have to re-do the whole yard, right?" Caitlin asks, joining them again to lure Charlie inside; any leaves they'd raked together were spread all over the grass again, swept around the garden by their quick feet.

He laughs, "Worth it," and kisses Caitlin's temple.

They watch Charlie play for a minute longer, while they stand wrapped up in each other. Fall started and made everything clearer, helped him appreciate everything he has and everything he could yet have; with Caitlin, with his family, and in the future.

But a single thought overpowers all of that: could he really leave home, his mom and dad, Charlie, his girlfriend, to go to college?

.

.

The week before Thanksgiving school slows down—the taste of Halloween still lingers in the air, pumpkin soup and sugary treats, and teachers and students alike start looking forward to the holiday and all the flavors it will bring, the family they'll reunite with, and the overall feeling of togetherness he's associated the holiday with since he was a small boy.

There are, of course, exceptions to every rule.

For all his longing and wonderment to recapture moments of his youth, he'd give about anything to stay home this year.

"You don't mean that," Caitlin muses, pressing up to his side while they wait in line at Jitters, her arms circling his waist like she's a kid in need of affection—who would've ever thought he'd meet this side of her?

"I do." He huffs, feigning indignation. "You're worth sacrificing my grandma's pecan pie for."

Caitlin buries her face in his shoulder.

Neither of them had returned to Jitters since trivia night, so he inevitably starts reminiscing about their first date; how time had frozen when he watched Caitlin come down the stairs in that red polka-dotted dress, a perfect match to his red sweater; how her lipstick and earrings had been the same shade and the way a shy "Hi" had slipped from those red stained lips when they'd stood outside on the porch together.

God, he'd been nervous. It'd been so bad he almost backed out of the whole thing, made up some excuse for why he couldn't go that didn't include mentioning the knots his guts had tied into.

Now look at them, sitting opposite each other at a small table, lips sweet with his pumpkin spice and her chai tea, holding each other's hand, their eyes locked with no sign of apprehension, and shyness had left the building ages ago.

Like then, Caitlin's chin lies in the palm of her hand and the small size of the table means their knees are knocking together—and his heart still beats faster because of it. He's so in love he thinks any moment he might burst with it, explode into a million tiny sequins on the floor with no chance of ever getting picked together again.

"I was nervous too, you know," Caitlin says, as if his story has no merit without hers told alongside it. "I thought 'what if he doesn't like me outside of school?'" she says, as fond of the memories as he is, her eyes filled with stars like that night on the promenade, "and 'what if we won't have anything to talk about?'"

"And then I bring you to trivia night at a coffee shop."

"We do make a great team."

"Yeah, we do." He smiles, still surprised to hear how Caitlin's worries had mirrored his own. Turned out neither of them had anything to be concerned about at all—they'd talked and laughed and held hands, and Caitlin had stolen a kiss at the end of the night. His heart along with it.

"Barry?" Caitlin asks, eyes flickering between their mugs, across the table, settling nowhere.

She chews at her lower lip. "Do we need to talk about—"

Caitlin's gaze slowly rises to meet his.

"About..." he prompts, but as his eyes catch at that lower lip, at the way she's desperately trying to _not say_ something, realization hits him square in the chest.

Oh.

 _OH_.

He blinks. "No."

Hang on.

"I mean—" He frowns, scooting to the edge of his seat as if anyone could tell what they're talking about. "Do we?"

Caitlin releases a breath and purses her lips, thinking it over. Hadn't her question implied that she expected him to want to talk about it, though? Did they need to hash out any details, or preferences?

"Do you think we should— talk about— it?" he asks for good measure, because he will if she wants him to, but has no idea what he'd say. Should he ask what she likes? Whether she prefers the light to be dimmed? For some reason he wonders if maybe she brought it up for no other reason than to let him know she's been thinking about it too. Which, truthfully, comes as somewhat of a relief.

"I just don't want things to be awkward," Caitlin says. "I love you, and I want to share this with you, and—" Her breath catches again. "I don't want you to think I'm holding off."

His heart jumps to his throat. Is that what this is about? Caitlin thinks he's getting frustrated?

" _I don't_ ," he assures, and scoots closer still, if that's even a possibility with the table trapped between them.

"Look, Cait, I love you," he says, finding each word in its rightful place right away for what seems the first time in his life, "and I love being around you, and when we're together it feels amazing, but— I don't want to rush anything."

This isn't something Caitlin needs to worry about at all. Maybe they would've slept together if he hadn't been such an idiot about Ronnie two weeks ago, but they could just as easily haven't. It's strange to hear himself say it after he'd been in such a rush before they even started dating, but they're together now, they have each other, and he sincerely doubts either of them have any plans of going anywhere for the time being.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Caitlin scrunches her nose. "Neither am I."

He releases a breath that's both relieved and grateful. He has this wonderful girl in his life—there's no rush at all. It'll happen when it happens, and when it does it'll bring its own fresh worries, and there'll be another Big First waiting for them after, and their time together could well become a rollercoaster of ups and downs.

As long as they're both willing to weather it all together, everything will work out.

"So let's just— see where it goes."

Caitlin nods, and smiles. "Okay."

.

.

For Thanksgiving, as tradition dictated, he and his parents visit his grandma in National City, and Caitlin's family heads down to Smallville to visit her grandparents on her dad's side. Thanksgiving weekend at his grandma's entailed a lot of work in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables and collecting herbs from the garden, the house filling with the thick and homey scent of meat and bread and pies.

Even as a little boy he knew this holiday like the back of his hand. He remembers sitting on his grandpa's lap and helping him peel potatoes when he was still too young to wield knives, and picking cranberries to work into the sauce—now he knows what to do and where to get the ingredients without asking, because everything is still exactly where and how it used to be.

Thanksgiving tastes like roasted turkey and mashed potatoes, hot gravy and cornbread, winter squash and green bean casserole, and several more-than-he-can-eat kinds of pies. In his family it's a holiday where people showed their love for each other through food, and if the full spread on the table was anything to go by, his family loved each other more than any poet could describe.

He tells his grandma about Caitlin in as many colors as he possibly can, and she vows to get Caitlin a proper sweater to wear for the winter, something feminine and chic—his grandma's love could also be measured by the amount of knitwear she bought him, being constantly chilly herself, and the thought that she'd want to get Caitlin something, well, that just fills him with the kind of warmth his childhood memories leave him with too.

Upstairs in the guestroom, he finds some time to Skype with Caitlin. He settles on the bed and dials her number, anxious to talk to her.

As soon as Caitlin's face pops up on the screen a tightness releases in his chest, like somehow part of him had feared he'd never see her again, and now that he does, he can finally relax.

"Hey." Caitlin smiles the moment both their cameras focus. "How are you?"

"About to slip into a food coma," he confesses. "I love my grandma but after that third helping I start to feel like Hansel being fattened up."

Caitlin's giggle sounds over his phone's small speaker.

"You?"

"Watching Charlie," she says, and looks down to her left, where Charlie's probably not far from her reach. "He ate too much pie."

He grimaces. "Stomach ache?"

"The worst." Caitlin pouts. "He's asleep now."

"And your dad?"

"Downstairs with grandma and grandpa. He deserved some time off."

"So do you, you know."

Caitlin's voice lowers to a whisper, "You'll be my time off when I get back," followed by that scrunch in her nose that somehow comprises her entire face and a beaming smile. "I miss you."

His pulse quickens at the words. God, he misses her too; right about now he wishes fall tasted like Caitlin too, that she could be here with him in his arms, with her new perfume and strawberry chapstick and her curls threaded between his fingers—or her fingers laced through his hair.

"So, Mr. Allen," Caitlin perks up, "what are we grateful for this year?"

"You," he admits freely, breathing around the idea openly; he could have only Caitlin to lean on and he'd never starve, he'd never get lonely, and he'd never miss anyone else—that's what his lovesick heart tells him, anyway. "My family and my friends. Charlie. You."

It's been one hell of a year for him in many different aspects of his life; he started dating the girl of his dreams and fell in love with her, finally started thinking seriously about college and applications and he'd construed a clearer picture of what he wanted his future to look like. Things had never looked brighter.

"What about you?"

Caitlin smiles. "Barry Allen, my gentleman caller."

He's the one who giggles this time, something short and giddy at the back of his throat. The first time she'd called him that had been the day after their first date, and she'd invited him over for no other reason than to have him around—thinking back on that day fills him with second-hand embarrassment over all the nerves that'd threatened to tear him apart. What was there to be nervous about?

"I'm grateful for everything in my life right now," Caitlin says, then pouts a little, "Except the 400 miles between us."

"It's tremendously unfair we'll have to start studying for our midterms once we're back," he sighs, though he doesn't really mean it like that. They're both too academically competitive to neglect their studies for any aspect of their relationship, though these past few months it's been a wonder they've been able to pull themselves away. If he could he'd spend his every waking moment falling for Caitlin harder.

Caitlin smiles, her eyes filled with mirth and a tad of mischief. "We'll make time for some play too."

.

.

Midterms come and go, and with them a few responsibilities he's glad to be without for a while—even Caitlin has placed an injunction on everything school related for at least a few days and they spend them almost entirely in each other's company. They watch movies cuddled up together on the sofa, or his bed, with or without Charlie, under thick knitted blankets the cold weather warrants; they walk Krypto and hold hands, their gloved fingers threaded together.

Late fall may be cold, but they find ways to warm themselves.

"Why is my brother convinced you're taking him to Africa to get a dog?" Caitlin asks, swinging their locked hands freely between them. Her curls rain down out of her knitted blue cap, and she's wearing that gray coat she wore when he'd taken her ice-skating.

Krypto's some ways ahead, sniffling at the grass.

He huffs a laugh, "He asked me where he might find dogs in the wild", his breath foggy before it disperses into smaller molecules. "I never said I'd take him."

"I figured." Caitlin shrugs, pensive for a moment or two, before her next question tumbles from her lips. "Were you like him, when you were younger?"

"Energetic?" He grins. "Imaginative? Incredibly adorable?"

Caitlin rolls her eyes, the motion incongruous with the rosy sheen the cold has left in her cheeks. There's that biting chill in the air that nips icy at his lungs, numbs the tip of his nose and his toes along with it.

"I tried about everything I could to make my parents get me a dog."

"Dad's thinking about getting him one, for Christmas," Caitlin says, and when her eyes find his he can tell she's asking for something more, looking for advice on what to do or what to tell her dad. Not everyone's made to own pets.

"Charlie's a natural caregiver, Cait."

"But is he responsible enough?"

There's more to her question than she lets on, though he suspects she means for him to figure out what. In a lot of areas Charlie's mature for his age, but that's because he's been forced to, and in just as many ways he can still be a real kid—natural caregiver or not, at the end of the day, with Caitlin's dad working so much, Caitlin might be the one taking the most care of the dog.

"Maybe— you could take Krypto for a few days and find out?" he asks. "It won't be the same as getting a new dog but it'll give you some idea."

Caitlin tugs at his arm, her lips parting in a smile. "That's a great idea."

"I've been known to have those."

"On occasion." Caitlin cocks an eyebrow, before devolving into a bout of adorable giggles.

They drop Krypto off at his house and head to Caitlin's, where they have the place all to themselves—Caitlin's dad is treating Charlie to a day at the arcade and the playground, and Big Belly Burger; he'd told Caitlin not to expect them for dinner.

Caitlin lovingly called it quality father-son bonding, trips they took care to organize for Charlie regularly, so he wouldn't feel the weight of some of his father's absences quite so hard; a boy as young as Charlie doesn't yet realize how much their dad has to work to support his family.

Once they're at Caitlin's, they share a big mug of hot chocolate between them and settle on the couch, soon chasing down whatever sugar remained on each other's lips. Caitlin's fingers slide into his hair and he licks into her mouth, and the world fades around them. Hours could pass and he wouldn't notice, caught in the splendor of how big his heart grows when he's around this girl.

Caitlin pulls back, her lips kissed a glossy red, eyes hooded, and searches his face with the same indefinable look he'd taken note of before. Was it—longing?

"My dad and Charlie are gone all afternoon."

He nods, and swallows hard, catching onto the implication at lightning speed. Has she felt this as much as he has? Was this happening now? Are they taking their relationship to the next level?

He swallows hard. "Are you sure?"

Caitlin bites at her lip and nods. "Unless—you don't want to."

"I do," he blurts out a little too fast, but if Caitlin didn't know how eager he'd become each heated make-out session she must be blind. Still, there's no rush; they have time, and he wants to take his time without constantly having to remind himself to slow down.

He licks his lips and nods, grabbing gently around her hips. "I do."

With that, Caitlin climbs off the couch and holds out her hand, a devastatingly simple gesture that quickens his pulse, makes his mouth run dry, and his nerve endings spark with the titillating promise of what's to come.

He takes Caitlin's hand and lets her guide him, out of the living room, up the stairs, down the hallway to her room, and all the while he can't think of a single thing—his mind's a complete blank; all he sees is Caitlin leading the way, and all he can feel is the rhythmless tune of his heart, too erratic to be considered healthy. He's sure about this, as sure as he is about his love for Caitlin and sharing everything with her; his heart, his body. His soul.

Setting foot in Caitlin's room he becomes aware of the sudden chill in the air right after Caitlin locks the bedroom door. That's okay though; they'll have sheets and blankets to cover up soon, should any clothes come off.

Soft music starts playing.

Caitlin makes her way back to him, and locks their hands together.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

His body's buzzing with excitement and his heart might give out, but he breathes, "Yeah," nonetheless, because he's sure about this. He wants this. He wants Caitlin.

"Because we don't have to—"

"I want to," he whispers, and brings a hand up to her cheek, caressing a gentle line down her neck, pushing her hair back as he leans in and kisses her. Closing his eyes he can smell her perfume, taste her strawberry chapstick, sees her bright smile in his mind's eye so clearly his lips curl into a smile.

Caitlin pulls back, giggling. "Why are you smiling?"

He gazes down into her brilliant eyes, and says, "You", overcome with love, with joy, with a happiness that's never felt so complete.

Caitlin's lower lip slips between her teeth and takes on different meaning, especially when her hands smooth down his chest, and her fingers linger over the buttons of his shirt. Drawing in a deep breath she undoes his shirt, one button at a time, shaking a little as she does so.

He kisses her again as his shirt slips off his shoulders, if only to make her see they're both in this, he's right here with her, and he's sort of shaking too. That's normal, he thinks, they may have made up their minds but it's still a big step, and they'll see each other in a new way.

He helps Caitlin her out of her sweater, and her shirt, while Caitlin's hands slip beneath his undershirt and explore his bare skin, her hands a bit cold to the touch. Their lips meet and Caitlin feels tiny in his arms, more fragile now that she's stripped out of some of her layers, so he takes extra care to guide her towards him gently, to skim fingers down her back that barely touch.

"That tickles," Caitlin whispers to his lips, and pulls his shirt over his head.

Her eyes rake over his chest, her fingertips touching playfully over some of his freckles. For a moment or two he gives his own eyes leave to take it all in, Caitlin standing in front of him in a dark bra, the light curve of her breasts, the small rise of her stomach below her bellybutton. She's so beautiful and she doesn't even know it and it overwhelms him; this girl is undressing for him, opening up and letting down the strong walls she'd built over the years.

All because she loves him.

He brushes back her hair, silently asking Caitlin to look at him, and once she does they both smile.

"I love you," he says.

Caitlin's eyes sparkle. "I love you too."

"Should we—" he gestures towards the bed, hoping that the sheets might help break some of the tension, and provide a little more cover for any self-consciousness.

They both laugh, more than a little nervous.

Caitlin nods.

Before lying down he takes off his jeans, not his boxers, and watches Caitlin do the same, stepping out of her pants before sliding under the covers. They scoot closer together until Caitlin's in his arms and they're kissing again, and they fall into a pattern they know all too well by now. This doesn't need to be weird or awkward—it's exciting and it feels good, but neither of them has any reason to be embarrassed.

Caitlin's fingers knit into his hair and his fingers explore her silky smooth skin, and their mouths move together like they have for months, with practiced ease that unknots any unnecessary strain.

And maybe it's a little awkward, when he's not quite sure where his long legs go at first, until they settle in between Caitlin's, and he kisses her deep and slow.

Her hands are on his chest and on his back and in his hair, and small moans cascade from her lips, and when she whispers his name into his ear it's like the first time she's ever spoken it. It coils around his spine and travels down his back and he loses all sense of who he is outside of this boy, with this girl, in this very moment.

He comes down slowly, and they trade soft kisses back and forth, spinning into something new, two people who have shared this new experience and share a life, destined for greater things yet.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	15. Chapter 15

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter fifteen

.

.

Days shorten and a silent hush falls over the small world Barry claims as his; Christmas holidays are more than a break from school and his comfortable routine, more than presents and spending time with family—they also mark the start of a new year, the promise of renewal, fresh promises and well meant resolutions.

That Sunday morning he rouses because one of his feet slipped past the confines of his bed sheets, and with the temperatures dropped so drastically it's a most unpleasant feeling to wake up to. Drawing his foot close to his body, he curls tighter into his sheets, letting the winter quiet wash over him one long second at a time.

Winter has started, with no snow to show for it yet, but the crisp chill in the air assures a colder front is on the horizon. He can hardly wait to walk around in the snow, build snowmen with Charlie and Caitlin, carve out snow angels until the melting mush starts soaking into their clothes and they have to hurry inside to warm by the fire.

He'd spent most of his Saturday helping his dad clean out the chimney, an arduous task they both lamented each year—Caitlin and his mom had stood by with encouragements, and hot chocolate.

Both his ears perked, he listens for the telltale sounds of his parents moving around the house—legs of a chair scraping across the floor, the click of a door opening, or mugs clinking together in the kitchen. He finds none. The house is quiet, peaceful, and his limbs become everything but.

Because down the hall, in the room adjacent his own, Caitlin had spent the night. She'd been here most of yesterday and staid for dinner, and would join them for the traditional Sunday breakfast with the family too.

With his parents close by they obviously hadn't fooled around any, but this morning he feels a tad bit daring. Quickly dashing into the bathroom, cold nipping at his bare feet, he splashes some water in his face and brushes his teeth.

Then, as quietly as he can manage, he heads for the guestroom.

He ruffles his knuckles against the door.

"Come in," follows Caitlin's whisper.

He listens carefully for his parents' voices or footsteps, but the quiet remains, so he slinks inside—and it's so close to sneaking around with the threat of getting grounded hanging over his head, it starts his heart beating faster.

Caitlin turns in the bed to face him, a content smile curling around her mouth.

"Hi," he says softly, self-conscious all of a sudden, of how complicit he's making his girlfriend in his small act of rebellion.

But Caitlin pulls back the covers, inviting him closer. "Hey."

She's wearing the same _Star Wars_ shirt he's seen her wear on several occasions now, and it brings back memories of his arms around her and their lips locked—he slips into the bed moments later.

There's sleep caught in the corners of her eyes, and when she turns into his body it's all languid and smooth, like she's boneless, or she's been doing this –just this- her entire life. Caitlin brings her lips to his and demands every kiss his parents' presence had kept them from sharing, nipping at his lips like a greedy kitten desperate for attention.

"No fair," Caitlin whispers, "you brushing your teeth."

He brushes their noses together. "Can't drop my guard now, can I?"

Caitlin pouts. "What about me?"

"I'm—hopelessly in love with you."

"Practically have you wrapped around my finger." Caitlin nods as she closes her eyes, her forehead bumping against his chin as she does so, and he laughs, because it's so obviously true anyone could see it. He'd do anything for Caitlin if it meant making her happy, conjure that smile on her face, make her forget about her grief but help her remember her mom all the same.

"Remember, though, with great power—"

Caitlin snorts and shakes against him with laughter, burying her face against his neck, where she grazes her teeth against his skin, sending shivers down his spine the likes of which he hasn't felt before. Great power indeed.

A kiss follows.

"Don't worry," Caitlin says. "I may like the cold but I'm no Killer Frost."

If he'd have any room left in his chest, his heart would grow bigger still.

They snooze like that for a while longer, enjoying each other's company and using the early Sunday morning hours to their benefit. Not too many mornings have looked like this, and he haphazardly falls into thoughts of waking up next to Caitlin every morning; at college, maybe, should they get into the same school and decide to make that leap together. Would they? Will Caitlin want to? Or will her mind be set on one school, like Felicity's, and there won't be any point to them having The Talk?

Would he follow Caitlin blindly, knowing how that kind of devotion in part changed his last relationship?

"What are you thinking?" Caitlin asks softly.

He looks down and meets her eyes, still small from sleep, and decides against ruining the mood. Kissing her nose, he smiles, "I'm thinking I love waking up next to you."

"You're so corny." Caitlin giggles, and starts extricating herself from his arms. "Come on."

"Where are you going?"

"Going to get breakfast ready before your parents catch us."

He's known her long enough by now not to argue; they both get dressed and head downstairs.

At Caitlin's order he sets the table for four, squeezes some oranges for fresh orange juice, and makes sure there's coffee.

They bake pancakes together—or rather, Caitlin bakes pancakes while he watches her whisk and pour and lick batter off her fingers, a perfect picture of domesticity.

His thoughts stray yet again. What if they lived together at college? He could wake up to her beautiful face each morning; they'd make breakfast together and get ready for class. He'd live each day in the knowledge that Caitlin was –at the worst- a few buildings away, and he'd get to come home to her each night.

Could he have that? Does he want that?

Are they ready for that kind of commitment?

"What's all this?" his dad's voice interrupts his perfect fantasy, his mom not too far behind as they behold the kitchen table, loaded with an unusual amount of food.

"A thank you," Caitlin says, rubbing her hands together as if she's nervous. It's endearing and entirely too much for his heart to handle; Caitlin has no reason to be nervous—his parents adore her. "For your hospitality."

"Oh sweetheart, it's our pleasure," his mom coos. "We love having you over."

With that, everyone takes a seat, and they pass around the juice and coffee.

"Speaking of having you over," his dad says, while his mom scoops two pancakes onto his plate, "if you're not doing anything for Christmas, we would love to invite you and your family."

He blinks, unaware his parents had been entertaining the thought, but thinks it's a great idea. As far as he'd heard Caitlin hadn't made any concrete plans yet, and he'd love to spend the holiday with their two families together.

"Oh," comes Caitlin's voice, and when he looks at her he can't decipher the expression in her eyes—Insecurity? Regret? _Fear_?

Had his dad asked too much?

"Joe and Iris are coming too," he hears himself say, but regrets it instantly. For him, Christmas had always revolved around family, thoughtful presents and togetherness, but maybe that's been a hard thing for Caitlin to find these past few years. What would Christmas be without his mom?

But whatever he'd seen in Caitlin's eyes disappears a few moments later.

"That sounds like fun." She smiles. "I'll ask my dad."

After that, breakfast goes off without a hitch. His mom asks about their plans to go to the mall, where Caitlin hopes to find one or two more presents for Charlie, and she makes Caitlin swear to teach him how to make pancakes the way she does. He blushes at that, especially when Caitlin reaches for his knee underneath the table.

He's so in love and he feels so incredibly safe with her, in the comfort of his own home, in the security knowing his parents will be here for him no matter what, and he knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, he wants to take at least part of that with him once he goes off to college.

Could that part be Caitlin? Could she be his home away from home?

"Why don't we let the boys take care of all this?" his mom asks after breakfast, giving him and his dad a hard stare before she stands up. There's never any escaping those eyes.

The table's laden with empty plates, mugs and glasses, and used utensils—that's why they have the dishwasher.

"A-are you sure?" Caitlin asks, staring at him from the corner of her eye.

"Absolutely." His dad nods. "You ladies relax. We got this under control."

He and Caitlin share a smile before his mom whisks her away, and he wonders if that should worry him. Who knows what embarrassing stories his mom might spill.

"Was I too forward?" his dad asks, helping him clear the table and load the dishwasher. "With the Christmas thing?"

For a moment or two, it's disconcerting to think his dad too had noticed something off in Caitlin demeanor—but he tells himself that's because his parents caught her off guard. Their invitation hit him out of the blue too, so he can't imagine how unexpected it'd sounded to Caitlin.

"No." He shakes his head, not entirely convinced of his own words. "It's a great idea."

"Don't think I didn't hear you sneak into her room this morning."

His heart drops to his stomach. His parents heard that?

"We were just—" He stutters, but what can he really say to justify him sneaking around? His parents trusted him to behave and he'd gone ahead and ignored their wishes; he wasn't to sleep in the same bed as his girlfriend as long as they were all under the same roof. They hadn't slept, but still—

"We didn't—" he tries again, and again no excuse comes to mind.

"Ahhh"—his entire body freaks out, along with his mouth—"Nothing happened."

His dad cocks an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by that version of the truth.

Luckily, he doesn't get a speech. Not right now, anyway.

"Why don't you go and make sure your mom doesn't pull out any baby pictures," his dad says, and for the second time in about two minutes his heart sinks. Oh God. Would she do that? Will that be his punishment; Caitlin seeing a picture of him butt naked on a bearskin rug?

He slaps at his dad's shoulder, "Thanks, dad," and rushes out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs. He halts in time to catch his mom's and Caitlin's voices, talking to each other in the hallway.

"We'll understand if you prefer to spend Christmas with your dad and Charlie alone," comes his mom's soft and reassuring voice.

Everyone had noticed his dad's question had overwhelmed Caitlin. He would be too, wouldn't he, if Mr. Snow had asked him something similar?

"It's just a suggestion," his mom adds. "Open invitation. I don't want you to feel pressured in any way."

Peeking around the corner he locates his mom and Caitlin standing right outside the guestroom, and his mom brushes Caitlin's curls behind her shoulder. He smiles. It's such a mom thing to do. Personally he'd love for Caitlin and her family to join them for Christmas; Joe will be there, and Iris, and Eddie too; there'll be eggnog and one present for each person, and he'd love to be able to give his present to Caitlin with everyone there.

But if she's not ready, he won't push her either.

"Thank you, Mrs. Allen."

"Nora."

"Nora," Caitlin repeats, and smiles, though he doubts she'll use it much in the near future. He can't picture himself calling Caitlin's dad 'Christopher' either—or 'dad', for that matter.

Caitlin disappears inside the guestroom, and he sees it as his opportunity to come out of his hiding place. What would he do, he wonders, without his mom or dad, without their constant care and worry, without their watchful eyes, even when he doesn't want them? How has Caitlin made it this far missing her mom?

"Thanks, mom," he says.

His mom smiles, and pushes his hair back in that way she does. "You're welcome."

.

.

For the first time in months the Christmas break gets his mind off all the work he has yet to do for his college applications; he made lists and set up a schedule, but he's allowed for at least a week of doing absolutely nothing school related. His mom puts him to work around the house, and he hangs out with Cisco, but he dedicates most of his time to Caitlin and Charlie. No one seems to mind; other years he'd hang around the house and play videogames day in day out, walk Krypto, and generally laze around—now he has too much reason to get up and go out.

"Barry!" Christopher Snow greets him at the door that chilly afternoon, dark clouds overhead predicting nothing good.

"Mr. Snow." He nods, slides his hands deep into the pockets of his winter coat; try as he might, and he's tried a whole heck of a lot, he's still not at ease around Caitlin's dad. It's not that he thinks Mr. Snow bears him any ill will, but he'd love to see one boy his age who's one hundred percent comfortable around their father-in-law.

Mr. Snow grabs the large gym bag he uses for work. "I've been meaning to thank you for your parents' invitation," he says. "Been a long time since we celebrated Christmas in a big way. It'll be good for us."

"It'll be fun, for sure," he agrees, smiling when Mr. Snow confirms a lot of his suspicions surrounding Caitlin's attitude towards Christmas. The moment she'd accepted the invitation he'd vowed he wouldn't push her at all; he'd wait and see how the night went, watch her closely, keep his distance if need be; anything to make sure she's at ease.

"Caitlin's upstairs," Mr. Snow says. "Charlie's in the living room. He's uh- watching a video."

At Mr. Snow's clear hesitation, he frowns a little; what could be so bad about Charlie watching a video?

He pops into the living room, and calls, "Hey, bud," but Charlie doesn't stir, too focused on the television screen, showing some old Christmas movie. There are boxes near the fireplace and next to the couch, but without anything written on them it's hard to tell what they contain.

Satisfied that he can leave Charlie on his own for a few minutes, he heads up the stairs, making straight for Caitlin's room.

"Cait?" he calls, and pushes through the door—he locates her at her desk immediately, hunched over a book, making notes as she reads. "What—are you doing?"

Caitlin looks up. "Reading."

Scanning the book on the desk, he easily recognizes the font and spacing of the text, as well as the diagrams. "AP Physics?"

Caitlin nods, and continues her reading.

"Cait."

He walks over, hovering behind her. Why would she be reading for school? They have two weeks off, and while Dr Wells inspired a great deal of motivation and he's happy to do the extra work for a teacher as enthusiastic about science as Dr Wells is, not even their AP Physics teacher expected them to study over the holiday break.

"You know school's out for two weeks. It's Christmas."

"I know." Caitlin shrugs. "I just don't want to fall behind."

He lowers his voice, "All your applications are in," but when that earns him nothing but a scowl he dials it back.

Being academically competitive has never been a negative thing in his world, and Caitlin has definitely strengthened that part of him, but even he needs breaks from time to time. These past few months have been crazy busy with SAT prep and midterms, and trying to figure out his relationship with Caitlin in the midst of all of that.

Two weeks off had never looked so enticing.

Caitlin's insisted on going hard for as long as he's known her, and he can't stop her, but still; going too hard has never helped anyone.

"I'm not saying you should drop your guard," he amends, "but you're allowed to relax."

With that he loses her altogether.

"I just want to finish this chapter," she says, turning to the next page of her book.

"Okay."

He nods, even though he thought he'd gotten better at distracting her, or pulling her away from things she focused on too tightly. Could it be there was something else going on besides wanting to keep up with her schoolwork? Was it the holidays?

But he'd chosen not to pry into this part of her grief without Caitlin coming to him, so he leaves it at that.

"Your dad left," he says, "so I'll keep an eye on Charlie."

"Thanks, babe."

 _Babe?_ , he thinks, hit by an unmistakable case of whiplash at the sound of the word; the only time he's ever heard her use that was for Ronnie—and he's all for finding a cute nickname to call each other, but he's not sure 'babe' should be it.

He rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling that Caitlin's pushing him away for some reason. It must be the holidays, he tells himself, it must be hard for her this time of year.

Downstairs, back in the living room, the television is now playing static, and Charlie has dived into some of the boxes littered all over the living room.

"Hi, Barry," Charlie says offhandedly, folding open the lids of the boxes, carefully pulling out Christmas decorations one by one, as patient and meticulous as ever. Charlie could be an odd duck from time to time, a little kid and a small adult at the same time—sometimes he likes picturing Caitlin like that too.

"Hey, bud." He smiles, sitting down next to the coffee table. "What are you doing?"

"For the tree." Charlie pulls out a batch of small stars, loops attached to them so they can hang in a Christmas tree. "Where's Caity?

"She's studying. She'll be down soon."

At that, Charlie nods.

Curious to see the kind of Christmas decorations the Snows hold onto year after year, he opens one of the boxes, and rifles through a veritable mountain of garlands.

"These are great." He pulls out one garland made of popcorn, one made of different slivers of colored paper stapled together in rings, and one made from crêpe paper. "Did you make these?"

Charlie shakes his head. "Caity and mommy."

Looking over the garlands again, over every decoration Charlie has already hauled out of a box, he realizes each one of them is homemade—the stars are origami, most of the Christmas balls paper mache, and even the nativity stable's made from cardboard and peg dolls. Did Caitlin and her mom make all these? Was Christmas a holiday she and her mom spent day after day on DIY projects?

Maybe Christmas was Caroline Snow's favorite holiday, like Halloween was his mom's, and now that she's gone Caitlin can't bring herself to think about it much. Not that he'd really know—he doubts he could get it out of Caitlin right now if he tried.

He reaches the bottom of the box, where there are several unmade garlands waiting to be put together.

"There's a lot of leftovers here," he says, and pulls out pink, red and blue crêpe paper.

Charlie looks up.

"Think we can make some of our own?"

Arts and crafts aren't exactly in his wheelhouse, but once Charlie's eyes widen with excitement there's no going back; Charlie runs into the study and comes back with duct tape, a stapler, and a small glue stick. For his own safety, he makes Charlie handle the glue stick.

Running over to the television again, Charlie opens and closes the DVD player, turning on the same video he'd been watching before.

Charlie thuds over and sits down next to him, eagerly working the blue glue stick over each paper he's handed—it'll be a mess by the time they're finished but at least they'll have something to show for it.

"Mommy!" Charlie exclaims, and points a sticky finger at the television screen.

His heart drops to his stomach. What he'd believed to be a Christmas movie earlier, was footage of one of the Snows Christmas mornings.

 _December 2013_ , the bottom right corner of the screen reads.

The last Christmas they had together.

Charlie barely three years old. Caitlin fourteen.

Maybe this is why Caitlin isn't downstairs. Maybe she couldn't bear to watch this.

" _Merry Christmas, mom_ ," Caitlin's laugh sounds, and the camera soon shows her, still in her PJs, her hair in pigtails like he's seen in so many pictures, Charlie sat in her lap on the floor.

"That's me," Charlie whispers, sticking another piece of paper together.

"Sure is." He sniffles, eyes glued to the screen as Caroline Snow unwraps the present Caitlin handed her, shying away from the camera whenever it comes too close—and there's so much of Caitlin there; brown eyes and auburn hair, a small nose and plump lips, right down to the soft blush in her cheeks.

Tears shoot into his eyes.

Up on the screen comes a finger-painted mug he recognizes instantly; it's on Charlie's nightstand next to a picture of his mom—Caitlin must have helped him make it.

"Thank you, my babies," Caroline Snow coos and opens her arms so both Caitlin and Charlie can fall into a hug. Caitlin looks so young, and so happy, yet he still recognizes the sleep caught in the corners of her eyes, and the brilliant smile that has lived inside her for as long as he's known her—it might hide behind her grief and sadness from time to time, but he's been privy to it in her unguarded moments.

The rest of video shows each of them unwrapping their presents, even Charlie, who needs help tearing the paper off his toys. Caitlin shies away from the camera as often as her mom does, and he smiles at that, thinking he does know Caroline Snow, in a way, through Caitlin.

He takes mornings like those for granted; Christmas mornings, Sunday mornings, all of those were ripped away from Caitlin so quickly, so easily it's frightening. No wonder she keeps him at arm's length sometimes, to deal with things on her own.

"CAITY, IT'S SNOWING!" Charlie squeals all of a sudden, and jumps up to run towards the window, nearly tripping over an empty box in the process.

He's abruptly shaken from his train of thought, too slow to keep Charlie from placing two sticky hands against one of the living room windows to gaze outside. Sure enough, the sky has whitened, and small snowflakes are coming down.

"CAITY!" Charlie squeals.

It isn't long before he hears a door open and close upstairs, and Caitlin's socked feet thump down the stairs. He breathes in deep and draws a hand over his face, hoping to disguise the shock of emotion he'd gone through.

Charlie starts jumping up and down. "It's snowing! It's snowing! It's snowing!"

Caitlin comes in laughing, catching Charlie in her arms when he runs over, her usual breath of fresh air that helps clear his lungs.

"Are you guys doing arts and crafts?" Caitlin asks, eyes scanning the room, stopping over the mess they made.

He shrugs. "Trying, mostly."

"C-a-i-t-y," Charlie whines, tugging at the bottom of Caitlin's sweater.

"Alright alright," Caitlin says, "Go wash your hands. I'll grab your coat."

No sooner has Caitlin finished speaking or Charlie storms off towards the kitchen—Caitlin skips a step closer and folds her arms around his neck, and without thinking, without really needing to, he melts down and meets her for a kiss. Gone is her morose mood and with it any doubt that might've started nagging at him about their relationship. Caitlin isn't consciously pushing him away; she's just going through some things he could never truly understand.

"Thanks for watching him," Caitlin says.

"No problem."

They all get dressed in their warmest winter coats, scarves and gloves, and go out into the garden, where Charlie immediately starts running around. He sticks out his tongue and catches a few snowflakes, before he gets caught up watching Caitlin; she's tilted her head back to the sky, eyes closed, and smiles, while dusty snowflakes kiss her cheeks. Melting on her skin. He should ask her what Christmas means to her, what it once meant to her, and what she's been going through. Even Mr. Snow had admitted they hadn't celebrated much these past few years.

Later, though. It's a question for later.

Caitlin opens her eyes, and catches him staring. She smiles, for about a second and it's gone, replaced by a small concerned frown. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"It's okay," he says, even if Caitlin's apology sounds more like an excuse to not have to discuss what she's going through. Should they? Should he signal that he can see she's working through something and tell her in so many words that he's here should she need to talk? Or should he assume she knows that?

"If it's really important," he ends up saying, "I can help you summarize?"

If she still pushes him away maybe he'll say something, maybe he'll try to pry at that loose strand of emotion he's learned to recognize. Until then, he'll move at Caitlin's speed.

When Caitlin smiles at his suggestion, he's comforted that –at least for the time being- they're on similar wavelengths. "I'd like that."

He'll do that then. He'll sacrifice some of the free time he'd set aside and help her with some AP Physics work, and it can only pay off in the long run—all he means to do is be there for her, show her it's okay to be vulnerable around him and talk about her mom. He's tried that approach before, he's even tried asking her in so many words, and that paid off.

What if something else is wrong too?

"Are you okay?"

He sniffles, "No, yeah", still shook from seeing Caitlin's mom come to life in front of his eyes; it's odd how hearsay about a person never paints a complete picture, and it takes an actual picture to see how real that person once was. He thought he understood the places Caroline Snow occupied, the importance she had in lives that he cares about very much, but he hasn't felt her presence until this day.

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, he tries to picture living without his mom, without her kindness, without her strength and honesty—his dad would be at work all day and he'd carry responsibilities he's never even had to think about, like making dinner and doing the laundry, keep the house running and still finish his homework. Each and every single day.

"Charlie was watching a video," he says, maybe only to catch Caitlin's reaction.

"Of my mom?"

He nods solemnly.

"That was our last Christmas together."

Caitlin's brow lifts to an infinitesimal degree, before her gaze sets on the far horizon, and he knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, she sees images of that morning far clearer than the ones he witnessed. Some memories are sharper than others.

"My dad never watches it."

Mr. Snow's earlier hesitation makes sense now.

"Do you?" he asks, but before Caitlin can even answer Charlie drops down to the ground and spreads his arms and legs, attempting to carve a snow angel.

Thing is the snow has barely covered any of the grass.

"Charlie, no!" Caitlin calls, and runs over to berate his brother about grass stains.

And he never does find out if Caitlin watches the video, or not.

.

.

On December 22nd, he, Caitlin, Cisco and Hartley finally pinpoint a date to go out and watch _Rogue One_ together—it's been a long time coming but it's taken some time to find a moment where they were all free, and then book a showing that hadn't sold out yet. Their excitement's palpable though, more so his and Cisco's than Hartley's and Caitlin's, but their significant others would never do anything to staunch their fanboy elation.

"Salty or sweet?"

"Salty."

"Are you sure?" He smiles coyly. "Because last time—"

Caitlin swats at his arm. "Yes, I'm sure."

He hiccups a laugh; last time Caitlin had opted for salty popcorn too, before proceeding to eat half of the sweet popcorn he'd gotten. Secretly he loved Caitlin pilfering his food and doing the same to hers—it proved how comfortable they were around each other. Cisco thought it sickeningly sweet, but that wasn't their problem.

They stare each other down for a minute longer, seeing which one of them will give in first, but end up meeting halfway for a kiss; Caitlin's arms wind around his waist and he pulls her close balancing the cup of popcorn behind her back. Caitlin's all hands, her cold fingers sneaking underneath his sweater and he counts himself lucky he's mostly covered by his coat—he wouldn't want to give everyone in the theatre a free peepshow. Goosebumps erupt along his skin.

"Ugh." Cisco rolls his eyes. "Aren't you guys past the honeymoon phase yet?"

"What's—" He feigns, frowning and looks down at his girlfriend. While Cisco's been all for him 'getting the girl' since he learned he liked Caitlin, he hasn't been the biggest fan of their PDA ever since they took their relationship to the next level—he didn't tell Cisco a thing about it, but he and Caitlin have become more physical. He prefers to see it as a growing comfort.

"What's the honeymoon phase?" Caitlin asks, playing into his teasing, and curls into his chest for good measure.

He's growing increasingly more fond of winter, that's for sure.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" Cisco's eyebrows rise. "You two ganging up on me?"

" _No te preocupes_ , Cisquito"—Hartley joins them by the concession stand—"If they want to get arrested for indecent exposure, that's their problem."

Caitlin gasps and lets him go. "Low blow, Rathaway."

"Calling it like it is, Snow."

Caitlin snorts at that and covers her mouth once she registers the unappealing sound she made, but next thing they're all laughing at their own shenanigans. What an odd bunch they must seem to outsiders, at each other's throats for kicks one second and laughing their asses off the next—he wouldn't want it any other way.

The theatre's packed, and they barely manage to find four seats next to each other, but Caitlin kindly asks one moviegoer if he can't move one seat down—he ends up sitting next to the stranger, Caitlin to his left, Hartley to her left, and closing their ranks, Cisco. Caitlin and Hartley usually make sure to stick close together when he and Cisco are the ones picking what to do for date night—it's sort of adorable.

All through the movie, Caitlin sits still, eats her own popcorn, and never once tries to lure his attention away from the screen. He's tempted to think it pure consideration for the _Star Wars_ fanboy in him, but it mostly spins his worries into new shapes and sizes. She's here with them, but not, not when she thinks they're not looking, and it makes him wary about what else she may be hiding. It fills him with guilt over dragging her out of the house tonight.

"What did we all think?" Cisco asks after the movie, once they all make it out of the theatre.

Caitlin's leaned up against him, and he kisses her hair wanting to shelter her from whatever storm brewing inside her, but that doesn't stop him from going toe-to-toe with Cisco about this new wave of female-led blockbusters—they're both fans, undoubtedly.

And when Caitlin finally does tune into the conversation she looks around like she's a deer caught in headlights, unable to escape the question hurtling towards her.

"Did you like it?" Cisco repeats.

"It was okay," she says, her mouth doing that slight pouty thing that means she's still trying to convince herself of what she said.

"Okay?" Cisco asks.

"Cisco—" he says, the warning getting away from him too quickly; he doesn't want Cisco to push her too much, but he also doesn't want to make it seem like he's being overly protective—that's been known to have adverse affects too.

But if Caitlin's upset over his warning she doesn't show it at all; she simply shrugs, and reiterates, "Yeah, it was okay," before she wanders off towards the concession stand again, eyeing a small tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream.

Hartley joins him to his left, all three of them staring at Caitlin.

"She sat staring at her hands half the movie," Hartley says, and at this point it should no longer come as a surprise that other people notice, yet it does—Caitlin's trying so hard to pretend everything's okay, and sometimes she manages to fool him too, but fact of the matter is her mind has been drifting elsewhere. And he can't help but wonder where.

"Yeah, I don't know." He sighs, an increasing amount of worry knitting the lining of his lungs together. Could this be about more than the holidays? Could it be that Caitlin's keeping something else from him that has nothing to do with her mom?

What if it's something to do with them?

"She's been—off."

"Off?"

"She's been spacing out a lot," he says. "Whenever she's not studying or reading for class."

Was schoolwork a distraction from the real problem?

"She hit her head or something?" Cisco asks. "Even Dr Wells is relaxing right now."

"Dude"—he looks down at his best friend, and he knows without looking that Hartley's joined him in staring—"You gotta stop Facebook stalking him."

As an answer, Cisco simply slurps at his milkshake for the entire foyer to hear. Unlike every other teacher at the school, Dr Wells maintained a public Facebook account, and didn't mind adding his students as friends—in turn he never posted anything about his life that he deemed too private, and shared a lot of science facts, but still. He, Caitlin and Hartley agreed they didn't need to know what was on the page.

He makes his way over to Caitlin, placing his chin on her shoulder while they both scan all the ice cream flavors on sale. "Are you getting one?" he asks, his own eyes catching on a tub of Cookie Dough. "We can take them home with us, watch some TV, maybe make-out on the couch after your dad and Charlie go to bed?"

He pushes a kiss to her temple, arms slipping around her waist.

"Hmm?" Caitlin hums, joining him from miles away, lost in a train of thought he's not clued in on.

"I was just—" His arms tighten around her middle—no, he'd vowed not to push her. It's possible he's blowing this all out of proportion anyway. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah!" Caitlin exclaims, more chipper than her usual demeanor, and turns in his arms. Her eyes narrow on his face. "Did you say something about making out?"

He nods, though his heart has sunk a little deeper in despair. Doesn't the fact that other people have noticed Caitlin's preoccupation prove he isn't imagining this? But does that automatically mean this is something he has to worry about?

Caitlin pushes a sweet kiss to his lips. Another instance where she fools him completely.

Maybe this isn't about their relationship.

"We'll have to wait for my dad and Charlie to go to bed," Caitlin says softly, her arms around his neck again, claiming every inch of his body for herself; and God, does she own every inch of it.

.

.

On Christmas morning he wakes abruptly to Charlie screaming right outside his bedroom door.

"Daddy, Santa came!" the boy's tiny voice travels through the house at lightning speed, waking everyone up—he remembers his own days of sneaking out of his room early each Christmas morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus; he never did, never even caught either of his parents placing any presents under the tree. Once he got older he figured they probably took care of that before going to bed themselves, at which point he'd be fast asleep.

He rolls onto his stomach and grabs for his watch.

7am.

Ouch.

Burying his face in his pillow he tries to get his bearings, the single bed in the small six by nine room and sheets not his own. This Sunday, the roles had been reversed; he slept in the Snows' guest bedroom so he could spend Christmas morning with them unwrapping presents and sharing breakfast.

Safe to say, he hadn't slept much, knowing Mr. Snow slept at the other end of the hallway, Caitlin not too far either—and it did leave him wondering if Caitlin had gotten any sleep at all at his house. She had acted nervous around his parents, no different than how he was around her dad.

They'd spent Christmas Eve first at his parents' house, trimming the tree and Caitlin helping out with some of the food for the party the next day, and then they'd gone over to Caitlin's, to decorate the tree there, hang up all their stockings, because –as Charlie claimed- Santa would obviously know to bring his presents to their house this year.

He'd been on his best behavior all night, nearly jumping out of his skin each time Caitlin touched or kissed him where her dad could see. He couldn't help it; Mr. Snow is an amazing parent and all too aware that Caitlin is a responsible and intelligent young woman who can make sound decisions, but when he's around Mr. Snow he still doubts he's one of Caitlin's brightest decisions—it's a irrational thought that pops up only around Caitlin's dad nowadays, and turns him into a bumbling fool.

"Barry, wake up!" Charlie knocks at the door, his feet thumping on the carpet floors to the next door. "Caity, Santa came!"

A door opens somewhere, followed by another, and he takes that as his cue to get up too—he'd been instructed to keep on his PJs, per family tradition.

Caitlin's waiting for him in the hallway.

"I'm so sorry"—she laughs wholesomely—"I should've warned you. He's been doing this every year since he learned to talk."

He shakes his head, yawning. "It's fine."

"Didn't get much sleep, did you?" Caitlin raises a knowing eyebrow.

"I did not."

Caitlin beams, her eyes the same sleepy browns of Christmas morning three years ago, the ones he saw in the home video. "Come here," she whispers, and steals a whimsical kiss off his lips—thankfully his heart can take this one; Mr. Snow's already downstairs with Charlie.

Caitlin pulls back, slightly perturbed. "How did you have time to brush your teeth?"

"I didn't." He grins. "It's gum."

Caitlin rolls her eyes. "Goof."

He makes a grab for Caitlin's sides, teasing his fingers into her skin. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not taking it back," Caitlin squeals, and he ends up chasing her down the stairs, much in the same fashion Charlie hurtled down the hallway, and heads straight for the living room.

Early morning dawn has barely lightened the room, so the tree's lit up in red and blue and green lights, about a dozen presents in every shape and size arranged beneath it. Mr. Snow made sure his present lay front and center so he could quickly locate it—he and Caitlin agreed to get each other exactly one present; he'd cheated and gotten her a second one, but he'd determined to give that to her at a later time.

They all settle on the floor around the tree, Caitlin grabbing her phone to document each one of her dad's and Charlie's smiles. There's no video camera in sight, and even he can now imagine where Mrs. Snow would sit, how she'd laugh and cheer with every present Charlie unwrapped, and it's all—well, it's a lot.

Part of him had questioned if this was an experience he should get to share in, considering how personal Christmas morning is to most families, but Caitlin had insisted over and over that he come, and that she wanted him there more than anything.

"You're family too," she'd whispered to his lips and kissed him in front of her dad and if that hadn't been enough to make him red in the face the shock that travelled through him would have—it's one thing to be called her boyfriend, but family?

It was a dream he never knew he had.

Caitlin rips at the paper of the present he got her, tearing it away to reveal the mug he ordered online; a beaker-shaped glass with her name spelled out in chemical elements.

"Aww," Caitlin breathes, running her fingers over the white lettering. "This is adorable."

"Yeah?"

"It is." Caitlin laughs, intertwining their hands. "I love it. Thank you."

Calcium, Iodine, Thalium and Indium didn't combine into any one real element, so he'd been nervous about whether or not it was the right gift to get his future biochemist girlfriend—but he supposed the thought counted more.

"Open yours," Caitlin urges, pushing her present into his hands.

He undoes the small red bow and pulls at the tape holding the corners together, soon revealing a thick book titled _Man Meets Stove: A Cookbook for Men Who've Never Cooked Anything Without a Microwave_.

Huh.

With the utmost care and awareness, he meets Caitlin's eyes. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

Caitlin cocks an eyebrow. "You need to learn how to cook."

Mr. Snow laughs, and Charlie stares at the whole exchange rather confused. And, okay, he can take a hint; he won't be able to go through college living on ramen noodles and takeaway, and he doesn't even know if he and Caitlin will go to the same school—even if they did, he can't expect to count on her cooking either. That would be incredibly selfish and inconsiderate.

Right before heading to the kitchen for breakfast, Caitlin pulls him aside, begging a not-too-small and passionate kiss from him; he melts down into it and smooths his hands around her slim waist, caught under the spell she cast over him long ago.

Caitlin smiles. "Merry Christmas, babe."

He tries not to cringe at the sound of the pet name.

"Merry Christmas, Cait."

That night the Snow, Allen and West family all get together to celebrate Christmas in a big way. His mom went all out with dinner, and Joe made his famous Grandma Esther eggnog in two versions: one for the adults who are allowed to drink alcohol, a virgin one for everyone else. Despite being over twenty-one, Eddie decides he won't be touching the alcoholic one, still hoping to make a good impression on Joe.

If Eddie's awkward around Joe after all this time, despite him and Iris living elsewhere, he can't see his own situation with Mr. Snow getting any less nerve-racking either. He's accepted that's a give-and-take he'll have to keep considering if he plans on keeping Caitlin in his life.

Iris, in the mean time, has no problem settling on Eddie's lap where Joe can see it, even though there's plenty of room on the couch.

It'll be a long time before his parents or Caitlin's dad catch them in that position.

Dinner's one big coordinated chaos, everyone talking and eating and laughing, Charlie trying to reach his voice above everyone else, and they toast, to new friends, to new family, to many more such Christmases to come.

He doesn't see much of Caitlin for most of the night; she makes sure her brother behaves and doesn't break anything running around with his new toys, and since his parents are hosting he has to make sure their guests have everything they need at all times—that means going around with drinks and snacks and making conversation.

He catches her eyes regularly though, and she'll smile at him and blush, because now they're surrounded by both their families and he wants nothing rather than to sneak upstairs with her to tell her exactly how stunning she looks in her bright red dress between dozens of kisses. He's pretty sure he can't get caught sneaking around with her again, though, or he might get grounded.

"Are you two okay?" Iris sidles his way once she catches him staring at Caitlin—her red dress captures the Christmas spirit in its entirety, along with the blue pearl earrings and pearl bracelet undoubtedly her mom's.

He nods. "I think so."

Iris raises an inquisitive brow, one she claims to have already perfected for her future job as a reporter. Sometimes he wished he wasn't quite to see-through when it came to Caitlin—or such an open book to Iris.

He bites at his lip. "She's been preoccupied lately."

"Maybe it's the holidays."

"Yeah."

He stares into his mug of eggnog long enough for his eyes to run dry. Maybe it's just the holidays. Maybe, once school starts up again, the distance in Caitlin's eyes will fade and they'll go back to normal.

Or maybe it has to do with something different altogether and he should be scared senseless, for him and for her. Right now he's mostly puzzled about what might be going through his girlfriend's head that she feels she can't talk to him about.

"What about you and Eddie?" he asks, hoping for a distraction.

"We're good."

"Just good?"

He looks at Iris, instantly caught in the concern apparent in her eyes—and sure, he's all too aware he's probably not fooling her, he's not adept enough in pretending nothing's wrong, but what can he say? That he's frustrated Caitlin isn't talking to him? That he feels he should be allowed to ask her what's wrong and be rewarded with an honest answer?

How is that fair when everything else about their relationship is still the same? If anything Caitlin has become more physical around him, quicker to hug and kiss and cuddle, faster with a smile or joke—if she hadn't dropped her mask at a few key moments this past week, he would be none the wiser. And to be honest, he's not sure he wasn't meant to see that mask come down.

Lucky for him, Iris grants him a distraction.

"We're both really busy," she says about her and Eddie, "and we can't always see each other when we want to. But I love him and I know he loves me, and we're always there for each other. So it's good."

"And—that's good enough."

He nods. He gets it. He does. A relationship can't always be earth-shatteringly perfect; it won't always be that swooping sensation in his stomach—sometimes they'll fight, sometimes they'll disagree, sometimes there might be misunderstandings. What's important is that they accept both of them won't always be at their best, at times they might catch each other at their worst, and he has to respect that.

He can do that.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I guess"—he shrugs—"I'm just worried."

Iris leans up against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Don't let her push you away."

That's the problem, isn't it? Caitlin's pushing him away without really forcing him out of her life—she's still all there with her body, with her lips and hands and adorable smiles, but it's her thoughts that go elsewhere. And that's somewhere he can't follow.

He watches Caitlin wander towards the porch windows, slipping outside into the cold without her coat.

The first time he ever joined her outside with her lonesome thoughts seems like ages ago now, at Ronnie's party, where he'd made a complete fool of himself thinking she could ever feel anything for him. Funny how things turned out.

Tonight he joins her aware that she's a little bit broken inside, that whatever part of her heart that had healed over the years is breaking again along jagged lines and sharp edges—that's the nature of grief, that's the nature of healing.

"You okay?" he asks, touching his hand briefly to her back.

"Just—needed some fresh air," Caitlin breathes, and sniffles, meeting his eyes with the hint of a smile—he isn't too surprised to find her eyes shine with tears.

"And some space?"

"No." She trips a step forward, and the next words from her lips pour out so organically he believes their impact and their weight. "I'm happy, Barry."

He brushes her hair back behind her ear, tries to look at her as if it's the first time he's seeing her, but finds he no longer can—he reads the telltale signs of her burdens too easily; sloped shoulders and her eyebrows somewhat drawn together, that little taut line in her lips he wishes he could loosen up. He loves her so much and there are so many things he wishes he could understand, but maybe Iris is right. Maybe it's enough, and maybe it's good, to simply be here for her.

"It's okay to be happy," he says softly.

It's okay to be happy like it's okay to talk to him, about the silliest and most insignificant things, about unbelievably big and heavy things he might not even be able to carry.

"I know." Caitlin nods. "And I know my mom would want me to be, but without her it's—"

Not good.

"It's still hard." Caitlin's voice breaks. "She would've loved tonight."

Caitlin rolls her eyes and smiles, as if she's trying to convince herself that her tears have no place here, not tonight, not at Christmas, but she's so wrong. They mean all the more right now, because she's remembering her mom, she comes to life each time they talk about her.

"Christmas is about family, you know?" Caitlin cries. "It's hard to forget part of mine is missing."

His Caitlin Snow. So strong and fragile. So beautiful and rough. So gentle, and so sad.

"She's not," he whispers.

Caitlin blinks up at him.

"She's right here, with us."

A disquiet acceptance travels down Caitlin's face, and she nods, licking her lips—she falls forward and curls up against his chest, shaking.

"I love you, Barry Allen."

He rubs at her back and kisses her hair.

This is good, and it's good enough.

.

.

Soon, the year draws to a close, Central City hidden under a light sheet of snow that has turned everything white, everything the same, exquisite in its simplicity. For five whole days his small world revolves around his girlfriend and his best friends; he hangs with Iris at Joe's like he used to, helping her wash her entire wardrobe; he plays videogames with Cisco while Hartley grumbles in a corner of the room; and he spends time with Charlie and Caitlin whenever their dad isn't home. He's okay with giving Caitlin and her family the space they need for the holidays.

On New Year's Eve he and Caitlin head out to the beach, where there are about two hundred other people waiting for midnight and the fireworks to follow—he's never seen it over the water before, but Iris assured him it would be quite the spectacle, and romantic to boot.

They lay down a blanket over the sand and wrap up in two separate ones, the cold biting at their cheeks and toes and fingertips—Caitlin cuddles so close he can feel the cold tip of her noes against his face, and he tries to grab at it with his gloved hand, but her nose is too small.

Caitlin pours them both a cup of hot chocolate from the thermos she brought from home to stay warm—it's fifteen minutes until midnight but if they don't keep warm they'll be frozen in place by the time the countdown rolls around.

"So," he drags out the vowel out longer than necessary, but he has to choose his words carefully, "about this 'babe'—thing."

Caitlin scrunches her nose. "It's not working, is it?"

His mouth opens, but no words come out—he'd prepared this whole speech around cute pet names and how it might be too early for them to have one for each other; he'd practiced it in front of the mirror, in fact, so he could avoid saying the name 'Ronnie', or else he might be accused of being jealous again. In this case, jealousy didn't have anything to do with it; 'babe' just sounded weird.

Caitlin shrugs. "I think it would be nice to have pet names. But I guess 'babe' isn't really your thing."

Always on top of things, his girl.

"Honeypuff?" Caitlin suggests, and it takes him about half a minute to figure out what she's talking about, or what the word could mean.

He snorts. Why would it be so important to have pet names? He and Felicity never had pet names; he always figured they weren't together long enough for that.

"Sweet cheeks?"

"Oh my God"—he laughs—"stop it."

He plants a kiss on her nose.

It seems forever ago that he sat in that library and asked her to study with him, longer still since he felt so awkward around her his throat closed up and he couldn't force any oxygen to his lungs. Yet she still takes his breath away all the same.

He has everything he's ever wanted. He hopes she knows that.

"I have something for you," he says, and unearths a white carton box from the pocket of his coat, one he's been hiding for close to two weeks.

Caitlin's eyes go wide. "What's this?"

"Open it."

"I thought we said only one present."

He smiles. "I couldn't resist."

Caitlin's eyes take in his face, but after a moment she grabs hold of the box, carefully lifting the lid, which opens to a long delicate necklace lying on white cotton.

"Barry," she breathes, and pulls the necklace free from the small box—there's a rose gold microscope dangling at the end of it, along with a small round plate that has the letter 'B' engraved on it.

When he saw it in the store window he had to have it.

This way, when she wears it, he'll be with her, one way or the other.

"You like it?"

"I love it. It's beautiful." Caitlin throws off the blanket draped over her shoulders and takes off her scarf, opening the clasp of the necklace to draw it around her neck.

He helps push her hair out of the way.

"I'm never going to take it off." Caitlin rubs her fingers over the charm. "It's perfect."

"You're perfect."

"Stop," Caitlin whispers, but there's not much humor in her voice, nor must there be in his eyes—he means these words more than any other. She's perfect to him, in every way, and he doesn't see them part ways in any future timeline.

"Am I being corny again?"

"You are." Caitlin smiles, and draws her fingers down his cheek. "I love that about you."

She pinches his chin and falls forward into a kiss, one that seems to start the countdown.

They laugh and move apart, Caitlin twisting her scarf around her neck again while they count down from ten, ringing in the new year with the rest of Central City.

The clock strikes twelve, and fireworks pop overhead, but he and Caitlin meet for a kiss, a New Year's kiss, their first in 2017. One of many yet to come.

Iris was right about the fireworks—each flower that explodes in the sky has its color mirrored in the water of the bay, one after the other coaxing cheers and applause from the crowd. Purple and blue and orange, red and green and pink, all reflected in Caitlin's eyes.

"Did you make any resolutions?" he asks.

"Not really," Caitlin says, but there's a sudden tightness in her eyes he can't place. "You?"

"Learn how to cook."

Caitlin laughs, but it's a single expel of air before she settles into silence—he watches closely as her lips press together and her gaze follows the trek her hand makes before it folds over his.

"Barry," she says, and his heart picks up a beat.

Is this it?

Is she going to tell him what's been bothering her?

Her big brown eyes find his, a rainbow of colors reflected in them—he could get lost in those eyes, but now is not the time, or the place.

"I'm sorry for the way I've been acting," Caitlin says, and there's shame in those beautiful eyes, regret and sadness, every single thing he'd never wish on her.

Caitlin casts down her eyes.

And silence falls again.

"So—something is wrong?" he asks, squeezing her hand, hoping for more of an explanation. Because this can't be it, she can't stop there, before long he'll start thinking it's—

"Not with us."

He releases a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. That's something, at least.

"I'm sorry if I gave you that impression." Caitlin shakes her head, and looks up again, that same regret right there in her eyes. "You're one of the only things keeping me sane."

Sane? What's going on? What's been chipping away at her attention? What's been stealing her away from him? What could be so terrible, or so big, or so heavy, that she can't bring herself to tell him?

"Cait," he says, voice soft and calm while his brain kicks and screams and teeters on the edge of despair. If she doesn't tell him something soon he'll go paranoid again. "Talk to me."

Tears fill up Caitlin's eyes. "I can't," she says, smoothing her hands down his chest. "Not yet. I need to—figure some things out for myself first. And then we'll talk. Is that okay?"

His brain begs him for one thing, his heart another, so when he stutters, "S-sure," it doesn't come out quite as certain as he'd have liked; he means to pretend this doesn't freak him out, that in his worst nightmare she isn't raking up the courage to tell him their relationship isn't going anywhere and this has all been a mistake from the start.

He means to. But he fails.

What if he loses her? What if some outside force takes her away from him? What if what she's really worried about are the exact same things he worries about: what will happen to them after high school? Will they stay together? Will they try taking their relationship long distance?

Or will they break up?

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._


	16. Chapter 16

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter sixteen

.

.

That morning, the first day of school after the holiday break, he wakes up with a disquiet at the pit of his stomach that hasn't left him for a week straight.

He shuts off the alarm and turns on his back, his eyes going out of focus; hand over his heart he replays the past two weeks, fast forwarding to the confession that brought him to a halt.

What had started as much needed pause from school, as a promise of spending every day with the people he loved, ended abruptly in the first few hours of the new year; the moment Caitlin confessed something had been bothering her for some time, but she wasn't ready to talk to him about it. _I need to figure some things out for myself_ , she'd said in no uncertain terms, kindling the unsettled notion of dread he's woken up to day after day since then.

Naturally, he'd jumped to all the worst-case scenarios; maybe Caitlin came to realize their relationship wasn't going anywhere and she's figuring out a way to let him down easy; maybe she's long since made up her mind about where she'll go to college and she decided a boyfriend was excess baggage she didn't need; maybe she was drafting together a whole manifesto of Reasons Why Caitlin Snow and Barry Allen Were All Wrong For Each Other and she was about to cut her losses. Maybe, like Ronnie, he'd been nothing but a distraction, one she no longer needed because her wounds were healing, her grief found a place, and she could go it alone from now on.

But none of those arguments accounted for what he knew to be true, for what he felt in his bones like a certainty, a self-evident fact—Caitlin loved him. More than that, they equaled each other in more ways than just their smarts and their love for their family, their love for science and math and their insatiable passion for learning.

They added up, like 2 + 2 made 4 and E equaled MC-squared.

Caitlin assured him her odd behavior these past few weeks had nothing to do with them and he should trust that; he knows what's in his heart and in all the ways that mattered he knew what lay in hers.

So if she isn't worried about them, what could it be? Something to do with college? Her applications? Or something altogether unimaginable; to do with Charlie or her dad?

However much he'd tried to respect Caitlin's wishes to give her time, after a week of it his patience is all but spent, and he hopes beyond all hope that Caitlin doesn't beg a whole lot more. He's never been good at waiting, especially when he can tell Caitlin's struggling.

"Barry! Wake up!" His mom shouts. "You'll be late for school!"

His heart jumps. "Oh, crap," he hushes, and stumbles towards the bathroom a mess of uncoordinated limbs. He does everything in his power to look and smell decent before grabbing an outfit blindly, and gathers all his books inside his backpack. One of these days he'll prove his mom and Caitlin right; he'll forget his own head. Luckily, it comes attached.

A car honks outside, Caitlin's way of signaling she's waited long enough and before long she'll leave and let him walk to school. It's what he deserves, really, for messing with her near perfect attendance record.

He flashes down the stairs, where his mom's waiting for him with a small packed breakfast and a fresh apple. What would he do without her? How will he ever manage being on time for his classes once he goes off to college?

"Everything okay, honey?" his mom asks, shooting him a worried look he undoubtedly deserves too—it's been a while since he's cut it this close. "I heard the alarm go off."

"Yeah," he huffs, and lets his mom smooth down the collar of his shirt. "I've just—"

Caitlin honks a second time.

"You better go," his mom says. "Talk later?"

He kisses his mom's cheek. "Sounds like a plan."

It might do him well to talk to his mom or Iris about his worries. He could use some sage advice from two women he'd trust with his life; they might offer some perspective he hasn't considered yet, and could appease his most pressing concerns.

Then, he's out the door and down the driveway, quick to get in the car.

"You know," Caitlin says, eyebrow cocked, tapping her fingers at the steering wheel, "the new year is the perfect opportunity to foster some new habits."

"I know"—he sighs, frustrated that he's let it come this far again. "I'm sorry."

Caitlin's eyes soften. "Hey, don't worry about it. We still have time."

Drawing in a deep breath he looks at his stunning girlfriend, at her brilliant brown eyes and her perfect rosy lips, and fears she's broken even now, behind her brave and radiant façade. What will it take for her to open up and be honest with him about the pain that haunts her?

"We'd have more time if I hadn't overslept," he lies, but it's a lie he needs to forget about his own worries; she may have promised to talk to him but he promised to give her time, and he's not about to break that promise. Telling her the truth about why he was late would only lead to more questions.

He leans in and begs a kiss, and Caitlin must not be too worried about being late, because she eagerly reciprocates, melting against him with her entire body—he'd almost think it a fair trade, some of her focus for an increased amount of intimacy, but it's not fair at all. If they want this relationship to continue working Caitlin can't keep begging time and space for problems he wants to tackle with her. If her distraction isn't fuelled by insecurity over their relationship he should be allowed to learn what's wrong. It's the only way he'll be able to help her carry this, whatever it may be.

His patience started running out the moment she made her confession, and he's not sure how much longer he'll be able to hold back. What ever happened to sharing the burden?

"You're going to make me late," Caitlin mutters to his lips, yet steals another few kisses.

He nips at her lower lip, equally reluctant to stop what they're doing. "I'm not the one driving the car."

With a giggle, Caitlin pulls back and swipes her fingers along his lips, making sure none of her lipstick transferred. "After school," she says, and puts the car in gear, expertly peeling away from the curb. "Dad's taking Charlie out to buy some new sneakers. We'll have the house to ourselves."

"To study, right?" he quips, even though experience has taught him there's never space to fool around until their homework's finished—he doubts that's changed any, even after taking their relationship to the next level.

"If that's what you prefer." Caitlin shrugs, always on her toes, always one step ahead.

He couldn't resist her advances if he tried, and she has learned most –if not all- of his weaknesses; her fingers rifling through his hair drives him mad, and there's no greater turn-on than her straddling his lap between her thighs. She's found each and every one of his sweet spots through careful trial-and-error and he's happily given her that power over him.

Caitlin parks the car and they hurry inside without exchanging another word—the bell rings as they make it into the main hallway and they break out into a sprint, headed for the lab as fast as they can. It's no surprise to find everyone already seated by the time they get there.

Cisco snorts for the entire class to hear, and Hartley, too, fails to contain a smirk.

"Mr. Allen, Ms. Snow, how good of you to join us," Dr Wells says, unable to hide some of his own mirth at seeing two of his top students join the class, both of them late and out of breath, and his lips no doubt showing traces of Caitlin's lipstick. "Have a seat."

It's probably a good thing they are top of the class, and that this isn't everyday behavior for them—otherwise they could've explained this to the principal.

"You're such a bad influence on me, Barry Allen," Caitlin whispers as they take their seats, and he smiles—a year ago that kind of accusation would've sent him into cardiac arrest. Now he knows better.

If Dr Wells is upset with them he doesn't show it, but going by the amount of times Caitlin raises her hand over the next forty-five minutes anyone might suspect she's making up for her lapse in judgment. She answers each of Dr Wells' questions like she has something to prove, and asks a fair amount of challenging questions in return. Gone is the faraway stare in her eyes or the moments she spaces out, and if it hadn't been for her confession at New Year's he'd think her okay again. Had her schoolwork over the break been a distraction all along? A way for her to focus her attention away from whatever was bothering her? She's been known to find distractions before.

But he won't let her ignore this until it goes away. He'll give her time, and he'll give her space, but they have to talk eventually. Isn't that what being in a relationship is all about?

.

.

"You were amazing in there."

He follows Caitlin out after class, and while she has her distractions down to an art he can't help but get infected by her enthusiasm, by her clear eye on the future and college—they'll both be back to writing essays and preparing for their interviews soon and he'll be by her side through the whole process. A year ago that would've scared him senseless, which only goes to show the kind of courage Caitlin engenders. It's a power entirely hers and he's a better person for it.

He takes her hand in his. "If I didn't know you were madly in love with me I might get jealous."

Caitlin cocks an eyebrow, and nods. "Dr Wells _is_ a very good-looking man."

"That's disgusting," Cisco interjects behind them, brow set dark over his eyes. "You're disgusting."

"Says the guy who's practically in love with him," Caitlin throws back without breaking a sweat, her small smile nothing short of triumphant the way it curls whimsically around her mouth.

Cisco's jaw drops.

He and Hartley exchange a quick glance, unable to contain a smile, but they're careful nonetheless—Cisco clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and Caitlin's on fire; there's no telling what might happen. Who's side would he even chose? His best friend's, who's been with him through thick and thin? Or his girlfriend, who he can't go without talking to for a single day?

Cisco blinks a few times, as if it will chase Caitlin away like an apparition. Then, Cisco looks to him. "Did you hear what she just said to me?"

He throws up his hands in surrender, scrambling for words.

"Is this the kind of support I can expect from now on?! What ever happened to the bro code?"

"What's the matter with you?" Caitlin frowns, and like her, he's at a bit of a loss about what's going on. Was there any specific reason for Cisco's bad mood?

Cisco grumbles. "Valentine's Day."

"That isn't for another month."

But the universe and Cisco's mood seem to be in close agreement. Caitlin's no sooner spoken, or two members from the Spirit Club walk by with a big plastic bag in tow—filled with small confetti hearts. Clearly some of the preparations had started early; for the past three years the school had turned unrecognizable for Valentine's, thanks to the Spirit Club's president.

"Tell that to Carrie Cutter."

"Why don't you like Valentine's Day?" Caitlin inquires, and he doesn't miss how her fingers wriggle tighter between his, as if she's ready to be told off by Cisco. He stifles a small smile, and while he does sympathize with Cisco's problems with the holiday, he can't help but picture those small confetti hearts raining down on Caitlin, her beaming smile, and her jumping for joy once he surprises her. He has so many ideas brewing for February 14th he may have to scratch a few if he hopes to get anything done—seeing the Spirit Club lugging around confetti he probably shouldn't stuff any of his own in Caitlin's locker. Unless he borrowed some from the Spirit Club.

It hasn't come together in his head yet, and he's still contemplating the best present to get her, but he'll find something. He still has a month.

But maybe he should keep those plans away from Cisco.

"Besides it being the most heteronormative holiday of them all?" Hartley interjects.

Caitlin pouts. "Oh."

And really, what more can either of them say? Every commercial and ad out there, every movie and even the greeting cards all promote the celebration of monogamous heterosexual relationships. Should he boycott Valentine's Day for Cisco? He never had before, and he hadn't last year either for Cisco and Hartley's first Valentine's together.

"We have to get going," Caitlin's voice draws him from his thoughts. "Can't be late for Calculus."

He nods solemnly, and follows behind Caitlin, wondering if it's too much of a stretch—his birthday is only a few days after Valentine's Day; maybe he and Caitlin could celebrate a few days later and ignore all the fuss for Cisco's and Hartley's sake. But wouldn't that simply be moving the problem? It seems a shame not to celebrate, when it's his and Caitlin's first Valentine's as a couple.

"Now I feel kind of bad for liking Valentine's Day." Caitlin pouts again, books hugged close to her chest.

"Don't," he says, "they celebrated last year in their own— Rathamon way."

That's how Cisco had put it, anyway.

"I've always loved Valentine's." Caitlin scrunches her nose. "Even as a little girl. I like the roses and the chocolates. The forced confessions of undying love."

He laughs, his heart growing ever larger in his chest. In hindsight, maybe it is a silly holiday; why would anyone need an excuse to celebrate their relationship? However they decide to spend the day it'll be special for them, and he'll bring her roses and chocolates and cards professing his undying love. But any confessions of love won't be forced at all; they'll come straight from the heart, where his love for her lives.

He just hopes they'll have talked by then.

"Did you take some of Charlie's peppy pills this morning?" he asks, and falls in line next to Caitlin, grabbing her hand while they wind down the hallway on their way to Calculus BC, starting the final few months of their senior year.

"You jest, Barry Allen." Caitlin wags a finger at him, adopting some of her dad's vernacular. "But you love it."

.

.

Hours later, alone at Caitlin's, he's not at all surprised to find their attention drifts towards homework first, and Caitlin starts on some of her chores. It's the same day as any other, or at least it seems to be to Caitlin, who lays out all her books in a neat pile on the kitchen table, a pen and pencil and ruler parallel next to it. She opens up her Calculus notebook and copies the problem to a new page, before reading it aloud.

"Write the first four nonzero terms of the Maclaurin series for e to the x. Use the Maclaurin series for e to the x to write the third-degree Taylor polynomial for g(x) = e to the x times f(x) about x = 0."

"Easy as Pi," he quips, enchanted by Caitlin's genuine smile each time he uses one of his silly puns. And while he understands all those words and how they relate to one another, while his rational mind jots down the series for f(x) in his mind's eye and means to follow her studious example, his hand hesitates around his ballpoint pen.

He can't take his eyes off Caitlin, fixated on her notes and on a problem within her power to solve right away, whispering "— _e to the x_ _is approximately equal to_ —" beneath her breath. It's so breathtaking yet so painful to realize this is her way of avoiding, too similar to his own. From time to time he liked believing that if he ignored a problem it wasn't really there, but time and panic attacks taught him it serves to make things worse.

"What's wrong?" Caitlin asks, her pen scratching at the page.

He blinks, "Hmm?", caught in his unlicensed thoughts.

"You're staring."

He shakes his head and rubs at the back of his neck, caught in those same old white knight fantasies where he faces the dangers surrounding her, slays the monsters at her door and frees her from her tower. For a long time he thought those fantasies disappeared along with Ronnie, but he still has them, even though she's not a damsel in distress, and there's no villain for him to fight—unless her guarded walls have become a new antagonist. Had he not successfully scaled them before? Had he not earned the right to ask her what's wrong and receive an honest and straight answer?

Or does that make him into more of a caveman than a white knight?

"Barry," Caitlin calls to draw his attention back to the here and now.

Thing is, here and now her confession might as well stand as a wall between them, something thin and see-through he's afraid to touch; what if it breaks and shatters in a million pieces and he won't be able to put it back together again? Or worse, what if he never touches it at all and it remains, intact, erected between them forever?

That's why he ends up saying it; that's why he makes himself courageous enough to touch a single fingertip to the clear glass and brave the cold.

"Have you thought about— what you said at New Year's?"

Caitlin draws in a short frightened breath and casts down her eyes the moment his words form into a coherent question, and it does little to assuage his fear, or his guilt.

"Of course," comes her terse answer, but her line of sight veers to the left and her lower lip slips between her teeth, and without seeing a thing her eyes go out of focus again, while worry lines knit her eyebrows together.

"I—" Her left hand jerks over one of her notebook's pages, ripping it free at one of the corners, but it seems of no concern to her. She looks at him, something akin panic flashing brightly around her irises. "I need more time."

His heart beats thick and slowly as their eyes lock, and he hates how little of the strong girl he finds reflected in Caitlin's, how much her worries have chipped away at the courage he admires so greatly, and how there's absolutely nothing he can do to help her until she talks to him. He feels powerless, and for the first time since he noticed something was wrong he feels utterly alone in this—had she talked to her dad? Felicity? Why would it be so important she talk to him, and him alone, if her worries not in some way included their relationship?

Quite unconsciously, his eyes fall to Caitlin's necklace, at the miniscule rose gold microscope dangling from the end of it, and the first letter of his name on the small plate next to it. So close to her heart.

She'd kept her promise. She'd worn it every single day since he gave it to her.

"Okay," he breathes. He'll keep his promise too. However much it breaks his heart.

Caitlin blinks, shoulders relaxing an infinitesimal amount. "Okay?"

"Look, Cait," he sighs, his eyes falling to her hands, now creasing the meticulously structured paper, "I can't say this hasn't kept me up at night, but— I love you."

He stretches his hand out over the table. "And I'm here for you."

Whatever panic he'd caused carefully fades from Caitlin's eyes, and some of the tightness leaves her mouth, before she lays her hand in his; it's never weighed so heavy, nor has it ever meant this much, to see her pull closer and still keep a part of her hidden. She loves him, he knows this beyond the shadow of a doubt, so why can't she talk to him? What could be so big, so heavy, or so scary, that she needs to gather her thoughts before even considering talking to him?

"I don't mean to worry you." Caitlin squeezes his hand, but pulls it back a few moments later, in time with the quiet 'ding' of the washing machine. She breathes in deep, and smooths out the page of paper she ruined, before standing up and gathering the clean laundry. It's routine, and even to him it's become familiar, but he's never felt the fabric of this reality grate so coarse against his skin—what else can he do?

How can he unsee how Caitlin settles at the table again minutes later, and goes right back to her homework as if nothing happened? How can he ignore that while she's doing homework, or putting away the groceries, or doing her chores, she's not keeping her promise; she's jumping from one distraction to the next, skillfully avoiding the problem.

He thought that a skill only he possessed.

He's only ever known her as this hyperfocused girl, intent on her future and her goals, organized and precise—now, it turns out, she's as much of a procrastinator as he ever was. But what could she be putting off?

Like every other time he came to Caitlin's after school, they finish their homework, and he helps her finish whatever chores she allows him to. He can't help but slip a hand along her shoulders when he passes her in the kitchen, or deny her the kiss she so cutely begs by simply rising on her toes, and expecting him to come to her—his lips close over hers and her arms slip around his neck, and he could drown in this too, tuck away from everything and everyone, from every responsibility and each worry and hold her instead.

"We have some time before my dad's home," Caitlin whispers, and settles her body pliant against his, a promise for more in her greedy kisses and wandering hands.

Sadly, the world doesn't work in their favor; they hear Mr. Snow and Charlie coming in through the front door.

That by-now familiar pout sets around Caitlin's lips, and she grabs around him tighter, fingers knitting into his sweater until he's blushing again, because her dad's _right there_ and they're usually more self-conscious around him.

"Stay for dinner?" Her eyes plead big, if not a little coy, and if the involuntary twitch in his lips is any indication this might be a new sweet spot for him—because he could be putty in her hands for all he cares, hers to do with as she pleases.

Still, his chest constricts around the idea, especially after spending these past few hours with her. Wouldn't that be taking away from her time again? He doesn't want to stop being her boyfriend for whatever time she needs to think, but he also refuses to be a distraction. That sounds an awful lot like—

No. He can't even think it.

He trips a step back. "I can't."

In truth, he doesn't want to, and that unsettles him so much he thinks Caitlin must see it in his eyes, because she hushes, " _Barry_ ," in that accusing tone she masters and searches his face for a clear answer.

He can't say it, how staying will draw her focus, will become a distraction, because that seems like adding weight to her shoulders, like somehow there's a time constraint she has to take into account to avoid bruising his fragile male ego. What kind of person does that make him? His patience may be running out, he may soon be at the end of his rope, but he won't add any unnecessary pressure.

"I should get to my own chores," he lies, hands slipping along her waist as he musters the most genuine smile he can, and Charlie swings himself unencumbered around his legs. "Maybe brush up on my Physics so you don't outshine me completely."

Caitlin rolls her eyes, but there's no heat behind it, and the smile that follows makes him believe his lies convinced her. Maybe he's as good at this as she is.

Her hands draw down his chest. "We both know I'm his favorite, Mr. Allen."

"Won't stop me from trying." He winks, and kisses her one last time, before she walks him to the front door, and he tries his hardest dragging Charlie along with him, the little boy too stubborn to let him go until his sister threatens to shut the door on him.

Out on the porch he shrugs his coat on tighter and misses Caitlin's arms, her hands and her lips and the warmth of her smile, yet he can't shake the feeling that, somehow, she's now making him complicit in her deception. He's pretending to be okay with this the way she's pretending to be okay, and it all feels like a vicious circle that before long they won't find the end of anymore.

He walks home a little bruised around the heart, second-guessing his decision of not staying for dinner, but if his rampant state of mind is any indication he made the right choice. He shouldn't add doubt or raise any more questions than the ones Caitlin's already facing. Whatever those may be.

Sunlight scatters and starts the early winter dusk, and as he walks home uncertainty weaves through his limbs, winding its tendrils around his heart all the way up into his brain, where it sits anxious, accompanying his inertia. He can't remain silent about this for his own sake or he'll go stir crazy, but he can't talk to Caitlin either or he'll push her away.

He's trapped between their sanities and it's the most God-awful place to be.

"Everything okay, honey?"

In the hallway, he meets his mom's loving eyes, acutely aware of the hint of worry in her voice, the same that'd been there this morning. At least he finds a little more space to breathe.

He nods. "Yeah."

He is okay, or he will be, given some time. If that's not ironic he doesn't know what is. However much time Caitlin needs he does trust her; if she had no intention of talking to him she would never have said anything at all, even though she had unduly worried him.

"You want to have that talk now?"

His mom's green eyes glint hopeful behind her glasses, and he does hate to disappoint her, but they can talk later, or over dinner, or any time after this. No matter what happens, he's confident in the fact that his parents will be here for him.

"I promised Iris I'd call."

Smiling lovingly, his mom walks over and pulls him into a hug. It catches him by surprise but he melts into it nonetheless, ever grateful that his mom can read his moods so well. Though, if she does, he fears that he's started -not unlike Caitlin- to avoid his problems.

He really needs to talk to Iris.

"Don't keep the lady waiting, then," his mom says, letting go of him far too soon, and pushes his hair back—each time she does he turns into a little boy again, running straight for his mom's arms the moment he had somewhere to go. It's been a while since he felt it so acutely, this need to be around her and soak up all her wisdom, all her love and compassion and understanding. If only he were a little more like her, a little more patient, and a little less selfish.

"I love you, mom."

"You're not getting a raise in your allowance"—his mom pokes at his chest, before turning towards the kitchen—"if that's what you're angling for, mister."

He laughs and shakes his head. At least they share a sense of humor.

"Tell Iris we say hi!"

Upstairs, he throws his backpack on the bed and turns on his computer, slumping forward in his chair. He groans and brings his forehead down to his desk—he doesn't want to be this person who questions the people around him at every turn, even though the best scientists question everything, all the time.

"I'm a good listener, aren't I?" he asks as soon as the Skype call connects, and he hears Iris' telltale, "Hey, Barr," coming from the speakers, and he remains exactly where he is, seized by more illicit thoughts. Surely his scientific reasoning doesn't have to extend to his personal life. Surely he should be able to shut off that part of his brain from time to time.

"Barry?"

"I mean"—he lifts his head, staring dead ahead, pondering the ins and outs of his empathic abilities—"I'm sure I could stand to learn a thing or two, but in the grander scheme of things— I do, okay? Right?"

An unmistakable shadow crosses Iris' face.

"What's wrong?"

He puffs out a breath. Like so many times before, he tells Iris the entire story from start to finish; how he'd noticed Caitlin straying from the present to sink away in thought over the holiday break, and he'd thought that to be because of her mom's absence; how she was there and not there at the same time; how Iris herself had brought it up at Christmas and told him not to let her push him away; how Caitlin was really only pushing him away emotionally, not physically, and simply being there for her didn't seem like enough.

Iris listens attentively, nods and smiles and sympathizes, before she chews at the inside of her lip—Joe used to call it her 'thinky' face, but seeing something similar to Caitlin's tic in his best friend now does little to calm his nerves.

"You don't think—"

"What?" His throat closes up further, squeezing what little oxygen that makes it to his brain through a filter of what ifs and maybes that started spinning him into a lesser man. "I don't think what?

"I mean," Iris' face scrunches, "you're being— safe, right?"

Safe?

 _Safe_?

"Yeah," he hears his own voice in the distance once the true meaning of Iris' question sinks in, and it stops him breathing. "Always."

Of course they were safe—he used protection every time they'd slept together, which had only been a handful of times, and Caitlin took birth control, and—

No. She'd tell him if she were pregnant. She would. She'd tell him, and if she were pregnant she would've told him right away, and she'd be freaking out a lot more about how a teen pregnancy would mess with both their futures, and—

He swallows hard.

Oh God, what if Caitlin's pregnant?

"Barry," Iris' voice sounds.

Wait. He frowns.

Have they been having sex long enough for Caitlin to be pregnant, and for her to know if she is? He does the math in his head—their first time was four weeks ago now, and Caitlin's moods started not long after that. So it's not possible, is it? If he remembers his sex ed classes correctly it takes up to four weeks for the pregnancy hormone to even be detectable in the bloodstream.

A deep killer cold washes down his body.

Is that why Caitlin's waiting to tell him?

No.

 _No_.

She said her acting strange had nothing to do with them, and her being pregnant would definitely qualify as that. No. She'd tell him if she thought she were pregnant.

"Barry!" Iris calls, snapping him to. "Where did you just go?"

"Where do you think?" He sighs, and covers a hand over his face; he's starting to wonder if he should be charting his girlfriend's menstrual cycle, that's what, and if that's not overthinking rather than his curious scientific mind he's not sure what is. How did he end up here?

"For all you know this has nothing to do with you."

"That makes it worse, Iris."

He looks to his best friend. This isn't the advice he'd hoped to get, or a fresh perspective; not only is he now worried that Caitlin could be hiding a pregnancy from him, but he's thinking up worse scenarios than he previously had. What if her dad's dying? What if she is? Is that too ridiculous to consider?

"If it's not me than she's—"

" _Barry_ ," comes Iris's voice, with that tone in it that's both a caution and a warning, because he's taking this much too far, "She's not doing this on purpose. You love each other."

"I know."

An uneven breath shakes out of him as he meets his best friend's eyes. Does she honestly think he blames Caitlin for this? He doesn't do much better sharing his anxiety or fear with anyone, so how could he put that on Caitlin? He just feels—left out, at this point.

"It's just—" He sighs again, one in a long line of many yet to come if he keeps up celebrating this pity party. "If it's taking her this long—"

In a few days it'll have been two weeks, and part of him is glad she confessed at New Year's, that she knew her behavior started reflecting her worries and that that worried him in turn, but he fears that part of him will start to resent her for it too. Because Caitlin knows him much better than this; this is driving him crazy.

"Iris, what if—" He closes his eyes, too afraid to say it with them open. "What if it's something really bad?"

At that, Iris falls silent, as does he. It must be unimaginable and unmentionable if it's spun Caitlin into such a mess.

"It doesn't help you to fixate on this, Barry."

No. It decidedly does not help him. But here he is, fixated, pining, _whining_ , wishing to be seen by Caitlin Snow once again.

 _Huh_.

Maybe he does blame her, to a certain point, for this predicament they find themselves in.

And if that's the case he deserves to feel this miserable. This isn't Caitlin's fault; whatever she's not talking about rests on her shoulders much heavier than it does on his, and she's clearly having a hard time carrying it—maybe she's resolved she needs to before talking to him, burden the weight of her troubles, gather her thoughts, before she's able to share it.

.

.

When his alarm goes off the next morning he's already wide awake staring at the ceiling, sleep stolen from him over the course of the night, one worrisome thought after the other twisting him into an even more anxious mess. He runs through his routine on time, but on automatic; shower, outfit, breakfast, his parents' voices going in and out.

Caitlin drives them to school and shines in AP Physics yet again, though he barely even tries to get a word in this time—Caitlin and Hartley launch into a discussion on fundamental frequencies of strings after class, and maybe that's why Caitlin fails to notice exactly how distracted he's become himself. Not that he minds; he's not proud of this in any way, and he wouldn't want her to think she's to blame in all this.

He powers through Calculus as best as he can, and finds Caitlin's method works—focusing on the work does momentarily get his mind off his distress, and the practical application problem he faces in Computer Science class has the same result.

Still, it's only a temporary patch, and before long he's idling next to Caitlin's locker, waiting for her to get out of European History. He wishes he were the kind of person who could set his worry aside and idle in the quiet reassurance that despite everything, he's still Caitlin's boyfriend, and she hasn't done anything to indicate otherwise. But his brain's never worked like that.

"Dude, what's the matter with you?" Cisco appears at his side like he springs out of thin air, Hartley not far behind. "You look like crap."

He grimaces. "Thank you for that, Cisco."

"Worried about Caitlin?"

He looks at Hartley at the sound of his question, and finds his friend's small dark eyes too intent on his face for his question not to be some kind of way of gauging his mood. Should it come as a surprise that Hartley also noticed something's wrong with Caitlin? Would it come as a surprise should anyone notice?

"We can tell something's wrong, Bartholomew," Hartley says. "She always drowns herself in schoolwork but she hasn't come up for air."

Resting his head back against the row of lockers, he closes his eyes briefly. "She said she needs time," he says, "and Iris told me not to fixate."

Hartley smirks. "She did know who she was talking to?"

He opens one eye, and looks at Hartley.

"You two deserve each other, Bartholomew." Hartley cocks an eyebrow, and not too subtly allows for a small victorious smile. "I don't think I've ever met two people more prone to bottling things up."

"Wh—" is as much of a defense as he can muster, before Cisco and Hartley promptly leave his side, and Caitlin enters his field of vision. Hartley isn't wrong; both he and Caitlin like to think they can solve their problems by playing them close to the chest or, in his case, allowing them to eat him alive, but does that mean they can't be better? Isn't that a cycle they can break?

"Hey, cutie." Caitlin skips over to his side and leans up against the row of lockers, quickly rising on her toes to plant a short but sweet kiss on his lips.

He smiles, "Hey, beautiful" as his cheeks heat up, though fails to control his eyes when they tick from her lips to her chest, down to her abdomen. And Iris' question comes back to mind.

 _You're being safe, right?_

"Could I take a look at your English notes later?" Caitlin asks, "I'm missing some of Mr. Hewitt's remarks on Chaucer and I..."

But whatever Caitlin means to do with his notes on Chaucer fades into white noise; Caitlin doesn't seem to have gained weight, but he's never paid much attention to that to begin with. Would she be showing after four weeks, even if she might not know yet?

"Barry," comes Caitlin's voice, and she steps into his personal space, pressing a hand softly against his abdomen. " _Earth to Barry Allen_ ," she sings, and even though it manages to secure him in the here and now again, he can't tear his eyes away from her stomach.

No. She would tell him if she were pregnant.

"You're not—" the words escape him without giving them any thought, but if it's possible, if there's even the slightest chance that she's pregnant, shouldn't he find out?

Caitlin's eyes narrow, following his line of sight. "Not what?"

"I mean"—he cracks the knuckles on his right hand—"you're sure you're not—"

And for the first time since they met, when Caitlin rolls her eyes there's nothing playful about it. She inches a step back immediately and throws up her hands.

"I'm not— pregnant, Barry," she exasperates, and like yesterday she averts her eyes; she opens her locker and puts her books away.

Unlike yesterday, her lips set in a tight line and she shakes her head, making her curls shake too. "I told you I would talk to you when I'm ready." She blows, her hands now touching random books in her locker for the sake of giving herself something to do. "Why can't you respect that?"

Yesterday, after he asked if she'd thought any about what she said at New Year's, she became vulnerable; he'd touched the glass between them and managed a small crack in it and she'd recoiled against it. She'd turned inward and smaller, but this time she's ready, she's on the defensive, like he means her certain harm. That couldn't be further from the truth.

"Because that was two weeks ago, and I'm worried about you."

He pushes on because he sees no other way—they're stuck in this place of uncertainty, Caitlin more than he is, but he's becoming stuck with her, and it's breaking his heart. They're better than this, on their own _and_ together.

"You're acting"—he lowers his voice so their conversation doesn't attract too much attention—"like everything's okay."

Caitlin faces him head-on, her eyes on fire yet gleaming with tears. What is he doing to her?

"What would you prefer I do?" Caitlin fumes. "Fall to my knees and cry?"

Would she, he wonders, if the glass were to break? Would she fall to her knees? Is she holding herself up with every bit of strength and courage she has not to break down right now?

How did it come to this?

"School is good for me, Barry."

Like that, her anger melts away and that same panic he saw yesterday sets in her eyes. He shouldn't ask for something she's unwilling or incapable of giving right now; he shouldn't push, he shouldn't even entertain the thought of it, but deep down his greatest fear is that he stands to lose her still. Even if this has nothing to do with him.

"It keeps me focused," Caitlin adds.

"No"—he huffs a mournful laugh—"it keeps you distracted."

Caitlin's eyes shoot up at him, and for a moment she's like a deer caught in headlights, about to be run over, and his heart mirrors her pain and panic as if it's his own.

Why did he say that?

Because there it is, that word, and while it's not entirely synonymous with Ronnie it recalls a time in their past that might as well be. Maybe, when it comes down to it, he did feel so strongly about this because of that specific word; a distraction, like Ronnie had been, and he refuses to be associated with it. He's not a distraction; he's her boyfriend who loves her more than words could say and wants nothing more than to be able to take her pain away. And maybe it's not for him to take, or to soothe, or to carry in any way.

But he has a mind to try.

"Barry," Caitlin whispers, her mouth moving around words she can't say, like that word, that one word, opened up her eyes and her mind to what she's been doing. She looks to her left, and her right, but finds no answers, flailing around.

"I don't—" He swallows hard, idling a step closer, but he's too afraid to touch her. "I want to give you time, Cait," he says, and it's the truest truth, truer than any other that's ever fallen from his lips. "I do. But this is killing me, and I hate seeing you go through this alone."

Caitlin sucks in her lower lip, and shrugs with one shoulder. "I thought—"

A year ago he might've agreed with her. A year ago he might've said she masters her emotions well, hides behind what other people perceive as a cold front, but he's gotten to know her far too well—she isn't hiding anything from him right now; she's not even hiding it from Hartley or Cisco. Did she honestly think she was?

"Barry, I'm sorry." She steps into his personal space again, knitting fingers into his sweater along his waist, grabbing onto anything she can, and it kills him. He hates how she has to fight tears to tell him this, yet he can't help the sense of defeat that washes over him. Will she ever tell him?

"This has nothing to do with us," Caitlin chokes out, "I promise, but—"

He reaches out instinctually, brushing her hair back behind her left ear and gently cups her cheek. "You need time," he whispers, surrendered to the idea of eons of it. "Okay."

He can't lose her. He _won't_ lose her over this.

Tears run down Caitlin cheeks. "I'm really sorry."

"Come here," he says, and pulls her closer—Caitlin rises on her toes and grabs around him, burying her face in his shoulder, trying her best not to break down.

His cheek brushes against her hair, his senses filling with the familiar raspberry scent that lives in his dreams all the same, and he makes her the same wordless promise he did months ago, when he had her in his arms for the first time at prom.

No matter what, no matter the hardship or the difficulty, or whatever mountains of patience she demands, he'll be here to catch her should she fall.

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._

*AP Calculus problem taken from Khan Academy


	17. Chapter 17

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter seventeen

.

.

"So, tell me about yourself," the faceless man says, pen at the ready over a notepad raised vertically between them; there's skin where his eyes should be, and the incessant nag of his voice seems caught somewhere undetermined, looming like a shadow at the back of his neck.

He blinks, "Excuse me?" while his knees knock into the man's underneath the small table they occupy. Sweat drips down his temples and he tugs two fingers inside his suit's collar, his tie knotted too tight around his throat. Why is he wearing a suit? Where is he?

"Why are you interested in this college?" comes the next question, a quill moving over the paper of its own accord. _A quill?_

"What- what college?" he stutters, his hands sticking to the table. What were they talking about again? MIT? Cornell? Michigan? He can't remember which interview he scheduled first.

"Hmm," the man croaks, giving him no quarter. "Why do you want to major in psychology?"

"I don't."

The pen halts its scratching. "You don't?"

There's a coffee ring stained deep into the wood of the table.

The man sits forward. "Why do you want to go to college at all if you haven't even decided on a major yet? Is this all some kind of joke to you, Mr. Allen?"

"No, I—" he defends, but his hands are slippery and the man gets up to leave. "Please, I—"

The table starts shaking.

His eyes shoot open as a text comes in on his phone, the light of the screen illuminating the entire room. For about a full minute he lies perfectly still, his heart beating as if he ran a marathon, skin sticky and clammy—slowly, like a murky sun rising, he notices the sheets against his skin, the confines of his bed, the bedroom so familiar to him. What was that?

His throat has run dry and his dream replays in front of his eyes. If his real interviews are anything like that a week from now he won't get into any of his desired schools. He's been preparing for these interviews for the better part of two months and it's clearly starting to take its toll. On top of that, he can't shake his worry over Caitlin either; having her cry in his arms yesterday affirmed that whatever troubled her didn't just worry her—it made her unhappy too, and that nearly brought him to his knees. He thought the days of seeing her sadness sink into her eyes and smile, into her entire posture, were over. She'd been doing so well and her healing process was something he took great pride in recognizing.

Had he undone all that?

He went home with her like the day before, and they'd finished what homework they had lacking any playful banter—for the first time since New Year's it felt like Caitlin locked him out emotionally too, even if she'd settled in his arms on the couch, watching _Zootopia_ with Charlie for the fourth time. She tucked in close and he held her throughout the movie but it was clear all the little gears in her mind had shifted into overdrive, clicking together one train of thought after the other; what he said and how he said it had given her something to think about.

And guilt ate at his insides.

"In Zootopia anyone can be anything!" Charlie cheered and threw up his arms, sitting back against his leg; his small body writhed with such joy he'd hazarded making the joke, "What are we going to do when he asks if he can be a dog when he grows up?" and Caitlin had giggled into his shoulder, reaching over to ruffle through her little brother's hair.

Maybe it was that whiplash sensation, of Caitlin isolating herself one minute and drawing closer the next that'd motivated his question, that'd made him the reason for her tears earlier—and he hated himself for it.

"See you tomorrow," he said, but couldn't miss how Caitlin buried her hands in the sleeves of her sweater and chewed mercilessly at her lower lip—why had he brought it up again? Why couldn't he have kept his promise and given her time? Now everything was awkward; nothing between them had ever felt awkward before.

"Yeah."

Caitlin's smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Eight hours of sleep hadn't lessened his guilt any. Why had he said anything at all?

Rolling onto his side he grabs his phone, reading the message that'd shaken him from his nightmare.

 **/Caitlin, 7:45am:** You better be up, Barry Allen! Not coming to school today, so you'll be taking notes for two. Don't worry about me. Kisses, C./

He leans up on his elbow and frowns, reading over Caitlin's texts several times to make sure he doesn't miss any of the nuances. Despite the light tone of the message and Caitlin's request not to worry a pit grows in his stomach, and his limbs grow heavy with dread. Because this can't be anything but his fault; he pushed too hard and drove her away and now she'll miss school because of it. _Because of him_.

This could've been avoided; with a little more patience and somewhat more common sense he could've given Caitlin the time and space she asked for. What kind of a boyfriend denies his girlfriend that? He'd meant to make her realize she'd been distracting herself with schoolwork rather than taking time, and it resulted in chasing her off. Had she ever missed a day of school before?

His phone vibrates in the palm of his hand.

 **/Caitlin, 7:51am:** Don't miss me too much ;)/

For one inattentive second a smile slips to the corners of his mouth, caught in the memory of her wink and smarmy attitude—it's astounding how Caitlin manages to imbue such happiness from a few blocks away, or still tries so hard to make him smile when she's dealing with things beyond his comprehension.

He thinks hard on how he should reply; how he'll miss her terribly but wouldn't want it to sound like he blames her for sitting out a day of school, how he's sorry for pushing her this far and he never meant to be the catalyst behind this.

He wonders if a text could say all that.

 **/Barry, 7:56am:** Missing you already :(:( Everything okay?/

He bites at his lip worried he said all the wrong things, that he should've started by asking if she's okay, or if there's anything he can do, but Caitlin's reply follows quickly.

 **/Caitlin, 7:59am:** What you said yesterday really made me think./

 **/Barry, 8:00am:** I didn't mean to upset you./

 **/Caitlin, 8:01am:** It's okay. No more distractions ;) Love you./

Reclining back against the pillow, he shoots back an 'I love you' as fast as he can, and fixates on the last few words in Caitlin's messages. _No more distractions_ , it said, that same word that'd struck not unlike lightning yesterday. Maybe he'd meant for it to stir things up, maybe he'd hoped it would drive Caitlin to see how she'd been avoiding her problems rather than face them.

But he's pretty sure he never meant for that word to make her cry.

Still, the word reassures him now. He should see this as a positive thing; rather than asking for time and space she's taking it, and she'd never let herself fall behind on school even if she were seriously ill. She could miss an entire week and she'd catch up in no time.

If a day on his own at school meant Caitlin safe at home coming eye-to-eye with her problems, he won't complain. He might feel a little sorry for himself, but no one will hear him whine.

"Can I borrow the car?"

He skips into the kitchen and pops two slices of bread in the toaster.

"Caitlin not picking you up?" his mom asks, headed to the kitchen counter to fetch the keys from her purse, and his dad teasingly adds, "Trouble in paradise?"

He swallows thickly. "No." Despite Caitlin's assurances he's still too sensitive to the topic, and arguably, there is some trouble in paradise, even if he's hesitant to call it that. Neither of them have said a word about breaking up, or going their separate ways, and he holds on to the thought that Caitlin's problems have nothing to do with him so tightly it could break bones. So it's safe to say his dad's not helping in turning them any less brittle.

"She's home sick."

"Must be the flu," his dad says. "It's been going around."

"Yeah." He huffs mournfully, as his mom watches him like a hawk. "Must be."

"A lot of rest, and plenty of fluids. She'll be good as new."

His heart sinks. If only it were that easy.

But he shakes his head, stopping any darker mood from taking hold. This will turn out to be a good thing for them—with some space and some time, and Caitlin facing her problems, the skies above them might soon clear again.

Time to focus on other things, like getting through the day without checking his phone a million times, or trying not to get caught doing so.

With only a few minutes to spare before class, he runs for his locker and collects his books, and winds down to the lab for AP Physics. He settles in his seat as the hushed chatter quiets, and he's left to face the strangest truth.

This is the first time he's at this desk alone.

Since Dr Wells partnered them three years ago Caitlin had sat by his side Monday through Friday, every week of every year, outshining him without even trying. She'd become his gravitational constant long before he fell in love with her, and long before they started dating. So for her to be gone, for that seat to now be empty, it's like being pulled into the event horizon of a black hole—time slowed down, time dilation hesitantly taking hold.

It was going to be a long day.

"Mr. Allen"—he refocuses on Dr Wells' voice—"You will be working with Miss Spivot today."

In the front row, he watches Patty right her shoulders and look back at him—he nods and smiles, and means to gather his things, but Patty beats him to it. Up until a few weeks ago Patty was Hartley's lab partner, but he and Cisco had long since found their way back to each other, not just because Patty sparkling personality failed to mix with Hartley's.

"Hey, Barry."

Patty sinks into Caitlin's seat a little breathless, so careful it's as if she's afraid it might break because she's not its rightful owner. For a day or two he'll try not to see it as Caitlin's seat, or lament how his girlfriend's not in it, because she's doing something far more important at home. He sort of wishes he could be with her, to help her through it.

"Where's Caitlin?"

"She's not feeling well."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

He winks, "But we don't need her to solve this, do we?" and starts setting up the spring mechanism they'll need for the Hook's Law experiments.

"Chemists are the ones with all the _solutions_ , Barry"—Patty's face breaks out into a smile, and she swings a fist like she's a lumberjack getting ready for a day of hard manual labor. Mostly the pun's so endearing he's left to wonder why he and Patty aren't closer friends—"And if you're not part of the solution—"

"—you're part of the precipitate," he provides, and chuckles.

He and Patty have been in each other's orbit since freshman year. They'd shared a lot –if not all- science classes over the years, yet, save for Cisco, didn't know many of the same people. He's sure he's shared a lot of classes with a lot of people he barely takes note of, though most of them probably didn't have a crush on him. Or so Caitlin believed. He's still on the fence about whether or not Patty sees him that way, and Caitlin had never brought it up again outside that one time—they weren't dating then; maybe it'd been a little jealousy on Caitlin's part shining through.

"You and Patty looked chummy in class," Cisco remarks over lunch; he, Hartley and Cisco alone at a table together, and here too he can't remember when was the last time it was just the three of them, even though that wasn't long ago at all.

He shrugs. "She's cute."

"Say what, now?"

His eyes shoot up, oscillating between his two friends like he's been caught saying something sinister, and he thinks over the implication behind those words. It doesn't have to mean anything, does it? Patty is cute, like Iris can be cute, and he's never looked at his best friend in a romantic way.

"I mean that in a— completely unromantic way."

He chews at his lip.

"But maybe don't tell Caitlin I said that."

"It could be a plural," Cisco changes the topic, as if he never said anything about Patty at all.

"What could?"

" _The Last Jedi_."

He laughs. "Are you still on this?"

"They can't give us two characters who are Force-sensitive and then turn around and claim Luke is the last Jedi. That's just terrible writing," Cisco rants, though when his theory isn't immediately accepted, he reaches across the table, and swats him in the head. "Come on, Barry, it's just like old times. Me and Hartley, you tragically single—"

"Pining after Caitlin Snow," Hartley adds for good measure.

"Talking sci-fi!"

"Of course"—Cisco frowns into his small platter of food—"old times also included you and me getting our asses handed to us by Jake and Tony."

"Thanks, guys." He shakes his head, laughing because it'd be too absurd not to. Somewhere in a past life he must've done something to deserve these two idiots, and he's not about to claim otherwise. "You really know how to cheer a guy up."

In his most selfish heart of hearts, he hopes things never have to go back to how they were, before he became someone's boyfriend again, before Caitlin's smile imprinted on the dark side of his eyelids. His pining days were over, and his days of being afraid of expressing his feelings, and even, amazingly, the days when his future felt uncertain, inflexible and empty. He couldn't even imagine it before, life after high school, but with Caitlin he does—the present, a year from now, maybe even five years; it's all there and Caitlin lives in every hope and dream. He may still change majors, he might still face a mountain of fears, but with Caitlin by his side he knows he can take on whatever life throws at him.

He's never had that with anyone, and maybe it's an odd thought to have in the midst of all this, but does Caitlin imagine the same things he does for them? He's never doubted her love for him, but soon they'll be making big decisions that could affect their relationship, and time will tell if they'll end up wanting the same things. The thought of that conversation terrifies him. Would he follow Caitlin? Would she want him to? Or will he finally make this decision for himself, not someone else?

Instinctually, he grabs his phone, pulling up that morning's messages, but resists the urge to text Caitlin now.

He doesn't want to get in the way.

He wouldn't want to distract her from more important things.

Hours later he returns home alone for the first time in months; not Caitlin or Charlie follows behind, but at least Krypto runs his way tail wagging, his big tongue sticking out as he leaps up against his leg, and he takes several minutes granting his wonderful dog his undivided attention. Sadly, it also reminds him of how badly Charlie still wants a dog, and how they're meant to walk him Friday night. Will they still do that? Will he see Caitlin this weekend?

Now truly sorry for himself and hoping for a distraction, he realizes that save for Krypto, the house seems unusually silent. He hadn't heard his mom say anything about going out today, though he'd been preoccupied with other things this morning so he might have missed that.

"In here," his mom's voice sounds in answer to his thoughts, and he quickly finds her in the living room, sat on the couch, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

"Mom?" His eyebrows rise. "Were you— waiting for me?"

With a subtle nod his mom beckons him over, patting a couch cushion reserved for him. "Ready to have that talk now?"

His shoulders relax, and with a breath, some of the pressure on his chest abates. Yes, he'd like to talk to his mom too, because she's less likely to needlessly worry him over things already driving him crazy. What can he say he hasn't explained before? How many more times can he tell this story without his entitlement shining through?

He rubs a finger over his lips, and walks over, sitting down with a new question. "Is it wrong to want something from someone you love?"

Is it wrong to want Caitlin to talk to him? Is it wrong that he in so many ways expects her to? He has no desire to see her hurt or sad, but if she is, if she's going through something difficult, he'd like to know what it is so that he can help. That can't be wrong.

"Depends on what it is you want."

What does he want? Everything's gotten so confused he's not sure he knows anymore. So like he told Iris no 24 hours ago, he spins his mom the entire story start to finish; everything that'd seemed off in Caitlin's behavior and the promise she made, the promise he made and how he'd nearly destroyed that, and how all of it made him feel. Stuck. Complicit. Alone.

"And now she didn't show up for school."

He sits back, sinking deeper into the couch. It's ironic, really, how for all the holding off he's capable of he's fallen for a girl even more adept at hiding her feelings.

"I feel so— helpless." He throws up his hands, while in his chest an emptiness takes hold the exact size of his want—he wants to be a better boyfriend than this, rather than sitting around on his hands. "I don't know how to help her. I don't even know how to be there for her anymore."

His mom sits back too, pressing their shoulders together, and thinks through her answer carefully. She's listened to his every word intently, and he's a little less burdened in the wake of his story. This is why people talk, why they communicate, so that the weight they carry might lessen. Why can't Caitlin see he'd listen and be there for her, and he doesn't want anything in return?

"Look, Barry," his mom says, "being there for someone doesn't necessarily mean being near them, or trying to help them. Sometimes all it means is listening without judgment, being there when they need you."

He's always been there, he thinks, since the day they met, but the thought echoes back to a time where her dad claimed she wasn't—when they met Caitlin was a different person, a broken girl living with fresh grief over an unimaginable loss. Was she going through something similar now? Did she need time to rearrange the parameters of their relationship around what it is she's dealing with?

"Maybe Caitlin has to come to this in her own time, in her own way. And you have to trust that when that time comes she will talk to you."

Sniffling, he nods, and fights an onslaught of tears.

"My beautiful boy"—His mom slides a hand through his hair, and kisses his temple— "carrying the weight of the world."

He chuckles weakly. Maybe he is, because the berth of his world encompasses Caitlin in huge amounts, but storm clouds have gathered over those parts and settled there for the long haul—only time would tell if they'd ever go away.

He helps his mom make dinner, and they silently agree his dad doesn't need to be told the same story; he's certain his mom will fill his dad in on the details later, but he doesn't have it in him to tell it over again without breaking down in tears.

So he throws himself into his homework for the rest of the night—he writes up a first draft of his physics lab report and takes great care mocking up the graphs and sample calculations. He emails Patty about her report, about whether or not she needs his help, since she's his partner on this, after all; he's gotten used to Caitlin's tried-and-true method of writing up several drafts and helping each other out, but he can't be sure Patty will want to proceed the same way.

A few hours later, when he's settled in bed with his laptop about to watch an episode of _The Walking Dead_ , he can no longer hold off on texting Caitlin. It hasn't been a day and he can't stand the idea of not having talked to her—what's she doing right now? What is she thinking? Could she use a hug? Because he definitely could.

He can't text her anything that might sound like pressure; he's already taken too many risks over the past three days, and he should watch his step. So, something neutral then, that's certain to catch her attention.

 **/Barry, 9:45pm:** I can bring by some homework tomorrow./

 **/Caitlin, 9:47pm:** I'd like that :)/

He smiles at Caitlin's quick reply, staring at his phone's screen long enough to burn a hole right through it—what he wants more than anything is to see her, however sad her eyes might seem, however difficult it may be. He's not sure he can go another day without interacting with her in some way.

 **/Caitlin, 9:49pm:** But I only really need you./

 **/Barry, 9:49pm:** Promise?/

 **/Caitlin, 9:50pm:** Cross my heart. I love you, Barry Allen./

 **/Barry, 9:52pm:** I love you too, Caitlin Snow. Sweet dreams. x/

His chest fills with a quiet liquid warmth, and whatever emptiness that threatened to spill all through his veins transforms into nothing but love for her. He'll see her tomorrow, then, after school—he wonders if she'll finally talk to him about what's bothering her, if their relationship will prove solid enough to make it through this, and if he'll be able to comprehend.

For now, lying back in the sheets, he's assured that he's in her thoughts and that he's with her, even though he isn't near.

.

.

On Thursday another text draws him from a disconcerting night's sleep, a dream where he wandered the hallways at school all alone—each room abandoned, every chair empty, yet the telltale sounds of school sounded nonetheless. Where had everyone gone? Why couldn't he see them? What could he do, on his own?

"Hello?" he'd called, but his voice came mechanical and collided empty along rows of lockers and bland linoleum floors. His veins turned hollow and his skin translucent, and he faded, faded, faded, until his phone started vibrating on the bedside table.

 **/Caitlin, 7:45am:** Rise and shine, Care Bear./

He grins.

 **/Barry, 7:47am:** Care Bear?/

 **/Caitlin, 7:48am:** You don't like it?/

 **/Barry, 7:50am:** No, I do, Kit Kat ;) I'm up, I swear./

 **/Caitlin, 7:52am:** See you tonight? After school?/

 **/Barry, 7:55am:** Damn straight, you will. x/

It's a day like any other. He sits through each of his classes and pays close attention, and takes notes more meticulous than they've ever been in those he shares with Caitlin—he wouldn't want her to call him out on anything later. He spoke to Caitlin's other teachers and filled a folder with all the homework assignments, as he was carefully instructed to do in a series of texts he got over breakfast this morning. Ever studious, that girl of his.

For all the distraction that proves to be he's still heavy with anxiety over seeing Caitlin tonight, over what she might say or worse, what she might not, and no matter how hard he focuses on his own work, part of him is already on its way to her, down the block, up the short path to her front door, knocking to get inside.

Patience has never been one of his virtues.

"So this is how Caitlin boosts her grades," Patty quips during homeroom, sat opposite him in the library for the first time ever. "She has superpowers."

He winks. "Don't tell her I showed you her secrets."

"Do you— have superpowers?" Patty ducks to catch his eye, an adorable and teasing twinkle in hers that shows she's finally loosening up around him. Had he been like this around Caitlin back when his crush encompassed his entire world? Patty's been slow to meet his eye, and her cheeks turn rosy each time he tries joking around; could it be Caitlin was right, and Patty had a crush on him?

"Unless 'being late' is a superpower," he says, "I highly doubt it."

Patty laughs and earns a curt, "Shhh!" from Mrs. Bates, so they dial it back for the next half hour.

They wouldn't want to get kicked out.

As promised, he drops by Caitlin's after school, but not before picking up some homemade soup his mom insisted on making the night before. Caitlin may not be sick, or she might not be hungry, but he likes the thought of his mom looking out for Caitlin too. If things progress the way relationships do, his mom will become Caitlin's mother-in-law; would that create a bond Caitlin's been missing?

By the time he reaches the Snows front door his heart has shrunk twice its former size, trapped in a viselike grip of fear that's convinced him he could well lose his girlfriend should this go the wrong way. Though how can he fear that when he has no clue what's going on, and each scenario his mind's come up with is simply too horrid for words?

Mr. Snow opens the door and lets him in, the two of them not exchanging a word; dark circles mar the area around Mr. Snow's eyes, and he doubt the man got any more sleep than Caitlin had. He can't imagine what this has done to Caitlin's dad, or Charlie. How much did they know?

He can't stand this anymore. He has to know what's going on.

"She's been asking for you," Mr. Snow says. "You should go see her."

He nods solemnly, caught between wading in this respectful silence Mr. Snow has created, and finally laying eyes on his girlfriend again, after two entire days of sparse communication.

Mr. Snow retreats to the kitchen, leaving him little choice but to head upstairs.

He knocks on Caitlin's bedroom door with no expectations, maybe still held onto the hope that she is sick—that would mean she hasn't locked all of this away from him behind walls he thought he'd scaled. He could never understand her grief, but at the very least he could be there for her. She hasn't even allowed him that.

"Come in."

Pushing through the door with little more to guide him than his frail frightened heart and his massive love for Caitlin, he quickly locates her on the bed, curled up in a ball on top of the sheets, used tissues all over the place.

Caitlin doesn't move.

"Brought you some soup."

"You know I'm not actually sick."

He nods, and purses his lips, toeing over ever so slowly, trying to see, to check, to gauge her mood. How should he approach her? Is she sad? Angry? Lost? Does it matter, after what his mom told him? All he has to do is show her he's here, that he supports her and loves her, and will listen to her, no matter what.

"There's nothing chicken soup can't fix."

"I'm more of a tomato soup kind of girl."

"Noted." He rubs the back of his neck, and enters Caitlin's field of vision. His eyebrows rise, and he attempts a small smile, starting over again with a soft, "Hey."

 _Brought you some soup_? How is that relevant right now?

After a mere few seconds, Caitlin grants him a small smile in return, liberating his heart to beat again.

"Hey, you."

His backpack slips off his shoulder and he lowers it too the ground, taking out the folder he'd put together. "Your homework, Milady. I hope you appreciate the lengths I went through to get you this."

"The walls you climbed," Caitlin provides.

"The dragons I slayed."

"You slayed dragons for me?"

"And two trolls," he says, "Big—stinky trolls."

Caitlin beams, and sits up. "They can't help how they are."

God, he wants to kiss her, have her in his arms and hide them both away from this world that's taken far too much from her. Would Caitlin be a different person if her mom were still alive? Would she seek advice from Caroline Snow the way he does from his mom? They seem odd questions to ponder, since Caitlin's loss in so many ways informs her every day, her every waking moment, and it was too great a loss not to have changed her. Would she have been quicker to talk to him, if it hadn't?

Silence sets in the breach that separates them, filters through the cracks in this invisible wall erected between them, and it serves to feed his anxiety again. Did she ask him here to talk? Or did she merely want her homework? Is he here as a distraction, or as a boyfriend who hopes to unburden her?

Caitlin wipes at her nose, and nods, as if she struggled with that same question, the agony in her face something he hopes she's spared in every future day to come.

"There's a letter"—Caitlin points at her desk—"top left drawer."

This is what his mom meant; Caitlin had to come to this in her own time, in her own way, and he should've trusted that that time would come without pushing. He's grateful he learned the ins and outs of her silences long ago—it may take time, it may take all the patience he's accumulated in his lifetime, but those silences end too.

Walking over to the desk, he can't imagine what kind of letter would've upset her so much, but he's no sooner slid open the drawer or his eyes catch on the MIT letterhead.

Of course. Admissions decisions come in much sooner for early action applicants.

He swallows hard.

Did Caitlin not get in? Was that what this is about, that despite all her hard work she got rejected?

He unfolds the bottom half of the letter to read what it says, and one of the sides cuts into his skin, drawing blood at his index finger. His eyes catch on 'Dear Miss Snow', followed by an immediate 'Congratulations!' at the beginning of the first paragraph.

"You— You got in," he stutters, and frowns, because why has Caitlin holed up in bed after such amazing news? Does she not want this? Why hadn't she told him when she got the letter mid-December? This is the most amazing news.

Caitlin sniffles. "Yeah."

He sits down near the foot of the bed as Caitlin sits up, and lifts her legs into his lap. She doesn't meet his eye, but brushes her hair back behind her ears, her hands lost in the long sleeves of her dark sweater. Is this the same peppy girl who texted him the last two mornings? Her sadness has never looked this complete before, what with her pale skin and red-rimmed eyes, and he can't stand this—what's going on in that head of hers? Why has that letter caused so much pain? What started all of this?

"Hey." He kisses her forehead and draws a hand down her back, cups her cheek and pulls her close; if only he could read her mind, spare her from having to tell him and face this again. "Talk to me."

A shiver shakes through Caitlin's body. She turns her face into his shoulder and digs fingers into his sweater, ravaged by another onslaught of tears. "I'm not going," she cries. "I'm not going to college."

His lips part but no sound follows. Why wouldn't she go to college? Why wouldn't she take this amazing opportunity that she's been working towards for years? Getting into MIT is _a big deal,_ as anyone would agree, and Caitlin's been excited for college for as long as he can remember. So what's going on?

"What—" He licks his lips, careful how he makes his question sound, "What do you mean?"

Caitlin draws in a wet breath, and pulls back, staring at her hands. "I'm not going to college," she repeats teary-eyed, her voice much more resolute this time, "and please, don't tell me I'm being ridiculous."

"I'm not."

Has someone else, maybe in this house, called her ridiculous? Had her dad come on too strong or voiced his opinion too loudly?

Why wouldn't she go to college?

"I won't," he says. "I just don't understand."

Before Caitlin can offer the bare minimum of a reply, a whine catches at the back of her throat and she starts sobbing again; his arms wrap around her completely, and as she shakes, as her tears soak into the blue cotton of his sweater, he wonders, _are they really this alike?_ Is this her doubt and insecurity eating her alive like his had in the past? It took him the better part of three years to convince himself that this was something he could pull off—he could leave home and chase his dreams, and now this girl, this beautifully broken girl starts doubting herself? After all the years he's known her, after all the talks they shared about college and after she'd helped him through his SATs, he can hardly believe she's the one freaking out. Isn't that his thing?

Her fear may be merited, but it's wholly unfounded.

In all the possibilities he envisioned for them exactly one layer of the multiverse showed them taking the chance, showed them going off to college together as a couple, and making it work. There isn't one where Caitlin fails at this, where she isn't the best or doesn't conquer first place as often as she can.

"I wish my mom were here." Caitlin pinches the tip of her nose and sniffles. "How can I—"

Her eyes close and her face contorts, and she cries, "How can I leave home, Barry? How can I leave my dad and Charlie?" without catching a breath.

And without having braced for it the words run cold through his veins. Because of course. Of course this would weigh on her far heavier. Forget doubt or fear over being smart enough to attend a school like MIT, forget having to talk about their future together, when leaving home means something so much bigger to Caitlin than it does to him. He doesn't know what he'll do without his mom or dad within reach, but what about Caitlin? What would she do without her family, and what would her dad or Charlie do without her?

This letter made it all real.

All of a sudden the past two weeks make so much sense, because he'd do the same if he were in her shoes. All this time working towards her dream it's a whole different thing to see it realized, to read in so many words that MIT happily anticipated her arrival after the summer.

"I—I don't know," he stammers, and Caitlin cries, and he's at a total loss for words. He's helpless and defeated, because he doesn't have the answers he hopes would find him once she talked to him. What does he say when he could never understand the loss she suffered?

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, and he coils around her like Saran Wrap, clings for all his worth to the girl he loves with all his heart, and never wished to see hurt this way again.

Maybe this is his Kobayashi Maru, his no-win scenario, because there's nothing he can possibly say to ease her pain.

Maybe that's not the point.

All that matters now is that he's here holding her together, that Caitlin shared this with him and isn't afraid to cry on his shoulder—he caught her in his arms before it was too late and he's never letting her go again.

He sits with her like that for what seems like hours spanning centuries, Caitlin allowing her tears to flow freely, his mind a beehive of thoughts he'll have to unravel some other time. Right now all that matters is showing Caitlin she's not alone, and she never will be.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner," Caitlin says, long after her tears have run out and the room has filled with a silence that could leave scars should anyone speak out of turn.

"It's okay." He smooths a hand down her back. "I know a thing or two about bottling things up."

Caitlin smiles weakly and pulls her legs up, but does nothing to distance herself from him; in fact, she finds his eyes for the first time in forever, and there's no longer any pretense in them. This is her in pain, raw and cut open and sensitive to touch all over.

So when he does touch her, when he brushes her hair back and his thumb draws circles over her cheek, he's more careful than he's ever been, her skin like eggshells easily broken, fragile to the slightest contact.

"Hey," he calls softly. "We'll figure this out. You applied to schools close-by."

Caitlin sucks in her lower lip and nods, though he's none too sure how convinced she is. He's not sure he is either.

"I didn't think the first acceptance letter I'd get would be from my dream college."

It echoes a voice from his past, another girlfriend who had MIT at the top of her list, who never asked if it loomed at the top of his—he had no idea Caitlin held the same ambitions, however prestigious a school it was.

"But how can I leave? Charlie needs me and my dad can't do this alone. It's so selfish."

She looks to him for answers, with her cheerless brown eyes rimmed red, but he finds that once again he has no answers for her. There's nothing selfish about a choice that's meant to cement her future, that's in so many ways expected of them—and yet it's a brave choice all the same, not just because it takes her away from home. No one will blame her for chasing her dreams, for getting a higher education when she's in a position to, like no one would or should look down on people who make a different choice. Caitlin doesn't have a selfish bone in her.

"This is everything I have ever wanted." Caitlin draws in a shuddery breath. "But I don't want it," she chokes out, overcome with grief again.

Deep down he knows she doesn't mean that, and that she'll come to realize that too given enough time, and it breaks his heart to see her torn apart; ripped between her dreams of a white lab coat with her name stitched on it, her state-of-the-art machinery, and on the other hand the role she's taken on since her mom died. She's become the foundation of the Snow household, and he still can't tell if that's a role she took on because she wanted to, or because it fell to her with her dad's irregular shifts at work. Caitlin liked being in control; she liked feeling in control, so he wouldn't be surprised if Caitlin chose this consciously.

"There's so much we have to figure out," she says, "about college, and us—"

A breath catches in his throat. Has she been worrying about that too? Had this letter made her face the reality that they might not end up at the same college? That they could yet part ways and—

No. No, it's too early to think about this. He hasn't gotten any letters; he hasn't even done any of his interviews yet—he can't think about losing her when that hardly seems an option. It's not a choice he's willing to face.

Caitlin's eyes find his, and the panic in them is his personified, the corners of her mouth pulling down.

"I don't want to lose you, Barry. I don't want to lose anything ever again."

"You're not going to lose me," he hushes, "and you'll never lose your dad or Charlie. They won't let you. Charlie will stowaway in your suitcase before—"

Caitlin hiccups a laugh, and he finds no more room for any jokes. She won't lose her dad or Charlie, not ever, not even if she moves to the other side of the world; distance doesn't have to mean breaking up like it had to him and Felicity, and it doesn't mean never talking to someone again. They have an unimaginable amount of things yet to figure out, on their own and together, but that doesn't matter in this moment; he's here with her because she wants him to be, and right now he'll be anything she needs him to be.

"What do you need right now?"

"You," Caitlin admits weakly.

"I'm not going anywhere." He kisses her temple. "But I'm serious. What can I do?"

"Maybe—" She looks at him through long and wet eyelashes, still fragile but somewhat coy nonetheless, and it steadies his heartbeat, "some tea?"

"Okay." He smiles. "I'll be right back."

"Hey," Caitlin calls, and grabs around his shoulders, and before he manages to get his bearings she brings their lips together. The kiss is deep and desperate, lips part and they breathe together clumsily before they find a rhythm; he loses all sense of things for a few minutes, with Caitlin's tongue caressing his and her greedy hands, and, quite unexpectedly, he decides it's nice to be able to distract her, if only for a little while. What matters to him is that she's talked to him, that she's shared her burden and placed some of it on his shoulders—it's some of the same fears he already carried, so what's a little more?

"Thank you for being here." Caitlin pulls back, allowing a mere handful of air molecules between them. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He tries to catch his breath, but fails. It's all he's wanted since New Year's Eve—for her to talk, for her to share, for her to tear down the wall between them.

Running downstairs as quick as he can, he turns on the kettle and picks out Caitlin's favorite tea, a concoction of mango and peach.

"You'll look out for her, won't you?"

He turns on his heel, finding Mr. Snow motionless in the doorway—it's disconcerting to see him hurt for Caitlin too. "Mr. Snow?"

"At college. You'll keep an eye on her."

It echoes a promise someone else asked him to make a long time ago, when he and Caitlin as a couple were but a folly fantasy and he hadn't yet learned to recognize Caitlin's healing process. What he'd told Ronnie last year came easy, because even if he couldn't be her boyfriend he'd determined to be her friend, and he'd be there for her during senior year if she needed support.

This time there's no guarantee he'll be there to keep a real eye on her.

He's finally in a place where he's accepted that he'll have to make these choices for himself, not someone else, and maybe he and Caitlin won't want the same things. There was a time where he believed he'd do anything for her, but he's learned he can't compromise his own wishes and dreams of the future for a girl, no matter how much he cares for her. He has to make this decision with his heart, but he can't go in blindly—he can't hang his academic future on Caitlin's, he can't ride on her coattails and hope it will get him where he wants to end up. Part of that future undoubtedly lies with Caitlin, but not all of it. Would she want it to?

He swallows hard, faced with his own impossible choices before even receiving any acceptance or rejection letters. "Of course," he answers, though only time would prove him a liar or not.

Now more than ever he sees the burden Ronnie carried, the challenges he faced being with Caitlin and exactly how and why she saw him as a distraction. It can't have been easy, dating Caitlin when she lost her mom, seeing her go through that, helping her through that in so many ways; love her, and leave her, and still care enough about her to ask some other guy to keep an eye out. Had Ronnie known it wouldn't last between them, like Caitlin had?

It doesn't really matter. It's all in the past, and all that should matter is right here, right now. For at least a little while, the future shouldn't matter either.

He brings Caitlin her tea, sitting down next to her on the bed. Her shoulders droop in that telltale slope again, but maybe it needs to be this way for a while. Clearly this will take a lot more time and a lot more thinking than either of them realize, but at least they'll face it together.

"I don't know why this hit me so hard." Caitlin sniffles, folding her small hands around the hot mug. "That letter made everything so real. College and graduating and— leaving home. My life is finally coming together, and it finally makes sense again and I'm—"

"You're not alone."

Caitlin looks at him sideways, an apology in her eyes he can't decipher. "I can't leave my family," she says, and his heart constricts around it. Long distance relationships aren't all destined to fail, are they?

"Yes, you can," comes Mr. Snow's voice from the other side of the room, crept up on them without their knowledge. Had he been there earlier too? How much had he seen?

"Daddy, I can't."

He stands the moment Mr. Snow draws closer, and without seeing him, without taking further note of him, Mr. Snow takes his place on the bed. That's okay; this is something she should discuss with her dad, before she ever discusses it with him.

"You owe it to your passion and your smarts, Caity," Mr. Snow says. "This is all you've ever dreamed of. All you and your mom ever dreamed about, and you're going to be amazing."

Caitlin stares down into her tea. "I can go to Hudson University too."

"Not a chance, young lady."

He smiles. He thought Caitlin got her tenacity from her mom rather than her dad, but maybe it's a bit of both. A the end of the day, it should still be Caitlin's choice, and he can yet see her attending Hudson if it meant she got to stay close to home; Hudson's no MIT, but they have a great science program.

"And me and Charlie, we'll make it work. It won't be forever."

"He won't understand."

"We'll talk to him, together. We'll tell him you're going off to become a real-life superhero."

Caitlin laughs, and Mr. Snow throws an arm around her, pulling his daughter closer for a hug.

"Your mom would be so proud of you, Caity."

Behind him, he hears the unmistakable sound of tiny footsteps approaching, and he looks to his right in time to watch Charlie halt on the landing, keeping a careful distance. He must sense something's off, otherwise he wouldn't be so quiet.

"Wha's wrong with Caity, Barry?"

Charlie's never appeared younger than he does in that exact moment, his eyes so big and far too sad, and he wonders if Charlie would understand; he'd learned the importance of school from his big sister, and his head's been filled with ideas like those from _Zootopia_ , how anyone can be anything, but does he realize that for Caitlin to become a superhero he won't see her every day anymore? At least for a while.

He walks over and offers Charlie a hand, and walks the boy downstairs again. It's best to let Caitlin and her dad talk for a while without having to worry about Charlie.

"She'll be okay, buddy," he says. "She just needs some time."

.

.

Friday comes and goes uneventfully, though he's never been happier to see a week draw to a close. It feels like a month has passed since Caitlin stayed home from school, and he's weary with it; the worrying he does for her has stolen hours of sleep, and much more that could've been spent of prepping for his interviews, but he's decided to keep that to himself. It wouldn't help Caitlin to know that this has set under his skin too. He needs to be selfless in this, be the best boyfriend he can be, and that means setting some of his own fears aside for now. They'll have to talk about this no matter what letters he receives, but there's time for that later.

He goes over to the Snows after school, with Caitlin's last few homework assignments she hoped to catch up on over the weekend. All day they've been texting back and forth, and the flirty tone in them became unmistakable once Caitlin found out he'd been partnered with Patty in AP Physics.

 **/Caitlin, 11:12am:** She better not get any ideas about stealing you from me./

 **/Barry, 11:16am:** Caitlin... I think we need to talk. Patty and I are very happy together./

 **/Caitlin, 11:18am:** You're so mean!/

 **/Caitlin, 11:19am:** I know I'm your one and only, Barry Allen, don't fool yourself./

It'd taken him a tremendous amount of effort to focus on anything all day, much to Cisco's dismay—he seemed particularly set on talking sci-fi now that Caitlin isn't around, and he took every chance he could to try and distract him. Sadly, none of his attempts had worked.

"Barry!" Charlie runs his way the moment he sets foot in the Snow house, a big box of Legos rattling as he gives it a few shakes up and down just for kicks. He crouches down and studies the box more closely, following Charlie's small finger over the spaceship yet to be assembled.

"Where'd you get this? It's not your birthday, is it?"

Charlie vehemently shakes his head, and all but screams, "Caity picked me up from school and we went to the toy store and she got me this!", unable to hide his excitement.

"My penance for being a grumpy sister," Caitlin's voice sounds above him.

He turns his head to find her at the top of the stairs, slowly making her way down, put back together again after yesterday's breakdown. Gone are her red-rimmed eyes and pale skin, instead she smiles and radiates warmth he's gotten so used to he can't help but draw closer to it. She wears all black, though, which tells him enough about her persistent mood.

It sounds like her, too, to offer penance for neglecting her brother in favor of dealing with her own problems. How could she ever think herself selfish?

Charlie pokes at his cheek. "Will you help me build it?"

His lips part—he'd hoped to spend more time with Caitlin tonight, before he and Charlie go out on their weekly walk with Krypto, but if everyone insists—

"I think Barry and your sister should probably do their homework first," comes Mr. Snow's voice. Thankfully, the negative answer doesn't seem to faze Charlie too much—the little boy looks up at his dad, and asks, "Will you help me, daddy?"

Mr. Snow smiles. "Of course."

Charlie starts jumping up and down, the Lego blocks inside the box cheerfully in tune with his enthusiasm. The hallway fills with Caitlin's laughter, and he draws yet another step closer. Their hands meet somewhere in the middle, locking together before he asks, "How are you?"

"No funny business, you two," Mr. Snow calls over his shoulder, but it's unclear whether he means that, or if it's a joke to keep a future son-in-law on his toes. Either way, it sets his cheeks on fire. When have he and Caitlin ever disrespected any of the rules? He'd sink through the floor before that ever happens in Mr. Snow's direct line of sight.

"I'm okay."

They make their way into the kitchen, where he starts unloading his book on the kitchen table, until Caitlin pushes up against his chest and demands all his attention, settling there like a baby bird looking for shelter. "I'm better."

He brushes her hair back, stilled by her neediness, lost in her big brown eyes. "I'm glad."

Caitlin rises on her toes and steals a kiss, a long lingering one, like it's a stamp or tattoo meant to remain there for a long time yet to come.

"Your dad said no funny business," he whispers to her lips, fingers of both their hands intertwining, settling this particular anxiety once and for all—Caitlin loves him and she needs him, and they're committed to one another.

"There's nothing funny about making up lost kisses."

"Hmm." He kisses her against his better judgment. Mr. Snow's right in the next room and could walk in any moment. This is tempting fate. "I'm compelled to agree."

But he's missed her too much to let go now, to not hold her together when she needs him the most, so he sinks down into a deeper kiss, and feels Caitlin's heart beating against his ribcage, in tune with his own.

"What's that?" Caitlin asks, pointing out a purple folder on the kitchen table, a little mismatched in between his standard black notebooks.

"Patty insisted I give you her notes."

"Damn it." Caitlin scrunches her nose. "Maybe she's right for you, after all."

"None of that, Dr Snow," he quips, circling his arms around her thin waist, "You're the only straw to my berry, the apple to my pie, the milk to my cereal."

This earns him a playful eye roll, and a swat to his chest. "Goof."

And as their laughter warms what few days had separated them, as Caitlin loops her arms around his neck, he can't help but be grateful for every moment he gets to spend with this perfect girl. She may be broken, but not in any way that would make him love her less; in fact, her strength in the face of her grieving heart makes him love her all the more. There's not a selfish bone inside her body, and any choice she settles on will reflect her caring and her grand capacity for love. It may not show to those who don't know her, but he's seen the light.

"What?" Caitlin asks softly, when his silence becomes too indecipherable.

"You know you don't have to do any— _penance_ for me. I'm the one who should apologize, I—"

Caitlin drags a hand through his hair, stopping any further apology short at the back of his throat; his spine tingles as Caitlin settles pliant against him, the palms of his hands turning sweaty. He's missed this so much. He wouldn't mind some more funny business. Consequences be damned.

"You were right to push me. I was ignoring the problem."

"Still, I'm sorry for being such a— caveman about it."

Caitlin laughs. They've been revisiting a lot of old words, these past few days.

"I'm going to start seeing a therapist again," she confesses, and casts down her eyes.

Sometimes it isn't easy to find out there are things she's never told him; he assumed she went through some type of grief counseling, like Charlie, and perhaps the entire family, but she's never opened up about this aspect. But he's also far too aware it isn't the first thing someone admits to, no matter the kind of relationship they have. At least it's good to know she's not ignoring the importance of what she's dealing with.

"It'll be good for me." Caitlin nods. "It'll make things better."

And when her eyes meet his again he's strengthened in that same belief—maybe she's trying too hard to fix whatever's broken, maybe she's rushing her decision, but therapy will make her see there's no rushing this. Time and patience are virtues both of them will have to adopt in the weeks and months to come.

Folding his arms around Caitlin, he pulls her into a big hug, not planning on letting go.

"Hey." He rubs soothing circles into her back. "We'll figure this all out."

"Together?" Caitlin mutters into his shoulder.

"Together." He nods. "Always."

 _._

 _._

 **tbc**

 _._

 **(!) ao3 version of this might be easier to read**


	18. Chapter 18: Caitlin POV

Written for **simplysnowbarry** 's Valentine's Day challenge, working from the following starter: _"On Valentine's Day, the Spirit Club plastered the school with red streamers and pink balloons and red and pink hearts. It looked like Clifford the Big Red Dog ate a flock of flamigoes and then barfed his guts up."_ ― Carolyn Mackler, Vegan, Virgin, Valentine

.

 **THE DAYS AR WHEN I WOULD SHY—**

chapter eighteen

.

CAITLIN POV

.

The confines of her tiny blue car have never felt this comfortable before, easily warmed by their body heat, growing hotter the more kisses they trade back and forth. There's a hand on his cheek, thumb caressing miniscule circles, and her fingers inch into Barry's brown hair exactly the way he likes it, if the moan that escapes him is anything to go by.

She giggles to his lips, breath caught so tightly between them it pops like a heated corn kernel. "We should get inside."

"Are you sure? We could sneak into AP Physics last minute again and have everyone stare at us."

She swats at Barry's shoulder, "That's not funny," vividly remembering how they'd stumbled into class a few weeks ago, several minutes too late, and everyone had stared at them like they'd been caught doing something illicit—Cisco, of course, snorted for everyone to hear and the heat that'd sunk into her cheeks at the sound of it had been both sobering and confrontational. Losing track of time in Barry's arms has definitely turned into one of her favorite pastimes, but not at the expense of her attendance record. "I was mortified."

Subtly smiling, Barry settles his head sideways against the seat's headrest, and she can't help but touch her fingertips over the freckles raining down his neck—the huff of Barry's laughter fills the space between them, and with Barry's eyes on her it's easy to forget they have places to be, that those green eyes spell out anything but the right there right then, and they have to be anything other than head over heels in love with each other.

Alas, it's Tuesday, and it's a school day, and even though she'd love to drown in Barry's eyes without coming up for air, they have an entire day of classes ahead of them before they go out to celebrate their first Valentine's Day together. She can hardly wait to see what Barry has in store.

Her fingers trace down Barry's neck, halting over the collar of his bordeaux sweater, an achingly beautiful color on her boyfriend.

"What?" Barry demands softly, but she shakes her head with a smile; it's her heart running away with her again, in that way it has around no one else before. If she's not careful, their escapades in the car might become a bigger problem than she initially anticipated. "You're really cute."

She laughs, and there's swift tickle deep inside her belly whenever his voice goes all dreamy like that. "You're just saying that because of my sweater."

Barry nods, and reaches over to brush her hair behind her ear, her red heart earring clicking against the glass of his watch. "And your earrings," he muses, "and your lipstick, and your nails, and your little— tattoo here."

Blushing now, she lets Barry touch a careful finger over the temporary tattoo Charlie helped her apply this morning, a tiny heart right below the corner of her left eye, fully in theme with the day's festivities. Admittedly, she'd splurged a bit this past week, bringing a little something from the grocery store each subsequent trip, but when she'd found the sweater, black and covered in white hearts, she became unstoppable. It'd been her mom's, once upon a time, and she found it finally fit—it'd brought tears to her eyes trying it on, her eyes falling to the single red heart in the collection of whites in the mirror.

Wearing her mom's old clothes made her feel that much closer to her each time she did it, and even though she refused to be sad on a day like this, even though she'd vowed today would be about her and Barry and nothing else, she felt the sweater more like a hug than a reminder of who she lost. She carried her mom with her, in the only way she had left.

Somehow, Barry must read all this in her eyes, because his smile fades to something more neutral, though no less open, and he says, without asking, "Your mom's."

She nods, trading a smile for his understanding.

Still, this sudden invasion of their perfect bliss with her mom's memory fails to awaken Barry to the reality that they should get going, so she does it for him—she checks her lipstick in the rear-view mirror, and double-checks none of it remains on Barry's lips, before getting out of the car.

Dutifully, Barry follows, catching her by the hand.

On Valentine's Day, the Spirit Club plastered the school with red streamers and pink balloons, and red and pink hearts. It looked like Clifford the Big Red Dog ate a flock of flamingoes and then barfed his guts up. Or that's how Cisco liked to put it, in any case, whenever Carrie 'Cupid' Cutter received the principal's carte blanche to decorate the school however she wanted.

Last year, Valentine's Day came and went on a Sunday without the school paying much attention to it, much to Carrie's then dismay, so she may have kicked it up a notch this year.

What they find once they push through the front entrance stops them both dead in their tracks.

" _Oh my God_ ," she breathes, eyes tracing over the hundreds –perhaps thousands- of hearts dangling from the ceiling. How on Earth did the Spirit Club manage this overnight?

Barry's eyes narrow. "Some of them have names on them."

"That's right," a voice sounds behind them—Carrie Cutter, seemingly lying in wait for her next victims, happy to accost every student that crosses onto school property today, "2,500 hearts cut out by hand and handwritten with the names of each student, each teacher, and every faculty member of Carmichael High."

On most days Carrie tended to stick to her own rung along the social hierarchy around here, so when she and Barry turn around to face her, all she can think to offer is a compliment Cisco's certain to kill her over should he find out she gave it.

"You've really outdone yourself."

"Make sure to go find your names sometime today." Carrie releases a happy sigh. "We're hoping for very positive exchanges among the entire school community."

With that, Carrie's onto her next victim, and she and Barry exchange a puzzled glance, before breaking away with a smile. Who wouldn't want a day of positive exchanges at Carmichael High?

"Cisco's going to have a stroke," Barry says, automatically reaching down for her hand, entwining their fingers as they make their way down the hallway.

"Valentine's Day or not, Cisco is going to turn into an old grump."

She purses her lips, wondering if she's being too harsh—on his worst days Cisco can indeed be a Grinch, the same way Hartley can be, but on his best days, and those were far more plentiful, he had her in stitches over one of his astute jokes at the drop of a hat. She smiles at the thought alone, and decides that no matter Cisco's mood today, or Hartley's for that matter, she won't antagonize either of them—she wants to enjoy today to the fullest, but she won't alienate her best friends.

"He texted me this morning wondering if he should skip school just to avoid Carrie."

Her eyes go wide in question, "Is he?" because surely Valentine's Day hasn't made Cisco that cynical—his name's bound to be included somewhere on a heart dangling over their heads, along with Hartley's. Carrie would never exclude anyone.

Barry shrugs. "I guess we'll see."

Then, her eyes draw towards her locker, and she skips a few excited steps ahead, beaming from ear to ear at the sight of a mysterious red envelope stuck to the outside. Her lips part in a smile, "What's this, Mr. Allen?"

Barry taps a finger at his chin, the corners of his mouth pulling down. "I— don't know," he says, though he's not fooling her; he's a lot of wonderful and admirable things, this genius of hers, but he has no poker face.

Still, she's nothing if not a team player in their unbeatable team of two, so she feigns along with a smile, "Must be from my secret admirer," and snags the envelope free.

Barry smiles tightlipped, like the anticipation's about to make him explode like Carrie's heart confetti will from certain individuals' lockers throughout the day.

No poker face, whatsoever.

"Where's Carrie?!" Cisco jumps between them without warning.

Her heart hits her ribcage, and she startles a step back, dropping the envelope. "Jesus!"

"Where the hell did you come from?" Barry hisses, rubbing a hand over his heart, clearly as shaken as she is by Cisco's sudden appearance.

"Patty snuck me in through the back."

"Patty?"

"She's in the Spirit Club." Cisco nods, peering up and down the corridor like he's being chased. "She owed me one."

She can't really imagine what Cisco did for Patty in the past to have earned him a favor, but that's not of any immediate concern. "Are you hiding from Carrie?"

"I've been trying to—" Cisco's voice trails off as he glances at the hearts above them, jumping a few times to get a better view on the names written on them. Oh no. He can't seriously be thinking about removing the one with his name on it? Never mind the amount of work that went into decorating the entire school; doesn't Cisco appreciate being included? He's being treated the exact same way as any other student; him _and_ Hartley.

Though, truthfully, she's hesitant to broach the subject with either of them. What does she know about being excluded based solely on her sexuality?

"Did you do something different with your hair?" Cisco asked, forcing another subject on them.

Her lips part with a stumped, "Yes?" as her eyebrows lower. This is one of the many things she loves about Cisco; he's always thinking three steps ahead of anyone else, including her and Barry.

"It's nice."

"Thank you."

"Cisco Ramon!" Carrie's voice travels down the hallway.

Caught in the act.

Cisco pales. "I'm out. I need to go steal Hartley's heart," he says, and with little else but a slap to Barry's shoulder, Cisco zips like a Road Runner through the other warm bodies surrounding them, and disappears from sight.

And Barry appears impressed. "That's actually kind of romantic when you think about it."

She rolls her eyes playfully, because, yes, arguably the idea of Cisco 'stealing' Hartley's heart, even if it's made out of paper, sounds adorable. Self-consciously, she touches a hand to her hair, her bangs pinned back in a small pompadour, one Charlie had lovingly called 'poof' earlier. It isn't her usual style.

"Where were we?" Barry asks, and picks the fallen envelope up from the floor, dusting it off before handing it back.

Tracked back to before Cisco interrupted them, her heart jumps in excitement yet again. Oh, she'll never grow tired of Valentine's Day for as long as she lives—and if she gets to spend every Valentine's Day after this with Barry Allen, she can imagine a lot of red envelopes coming her way in the future.

Sometimes she feels guilty she wasn't present enough through everything Ronnie did for her—the first year she'd been numb, sedated, living each day as it came, whether the morning sun brought with it her broken heart or something more recognizable. Ronnie had been there, and he'd stood by her, yet the memories don't set her heart on fire the way thinking about Barry does now. How had she ever deserved him?

Quite often, it gets away from her, all the conceivable tomorrows she could have with Barry; other Valentine's Days and anniversaries, holidays and birthdays, trips away from home, and certain tomorrows that could become frightfully real—going to college together. Could it be that will only ever be a dream?

"Aww," she moons the moment the card pulls free from the envelope; the word 'I' at the top, the word 'you' below, and the chemical structure of oxytocin, or the love hormone, in the center of the card.

She could have known. When has Barry ever passed up the opportunity to make a pun? She's found herself on the lookout for good puns ever since she learned of Barry's love for them, hence the Valentine's gift she got him. Now she hopes he won't think it's lame. Should she pick up something else after school?

"I _oxytocin_ you," Barry whispers with a certain amount of pride, drawing a giggle from her. It's a power entirely Barry's, though, to be fair, before that day in the library it'd been a long while since she'd had anything to truly smile about.

She pulls closer to Barry, fingers knitting into his sides as she rises on her toes. Maybe she should start investing in some heels or something, before her arches give out completely—luckily there's always Barry, meeting her halfway.

"Thank you," she smiles, "I love it," and catches the kiss waiting for her on Barry's lips, one short and sweet that leaves her skin tingling. "I _oxytocin_ you too."

Barry smiles that blinding smile of his, and it lands her with both her feet back on the ground—how he manages to make her fly and keep her grounded at the same time remains a mystery. He's taught her so much, about how it's okay to slow down every once and a while and take a good look at what she's accomplished, and she has so much yet to learn.

"Did you know oxytocin is a peptide of nine amino acids?"

Another giggle escapes her. "I did know that, Professor Allen," she says, and starts work on the lock on her locker. The exact sequence of the peptide went cysteine-tyrosine-isoleucine-glutamine-asparagine-cysteine-proline-leucine-glycine-amide, which she'd memorized in preparation for tonight. Clearly there'd been no need to.

Her locker opens, and rather than her books, there's a red tin box blocking her view. Heat diffuses in her cheeks, as much at the idea of Barry having memorized her locker combination, as it is embarrassment over sort of pushing him into this—she hadn't hid her love for Valentine's Day a single moment, and Barry had clearly taken the hint. She'd find the time to feel guilty if Barry didn't fill with glee where he stood.

As quick as she can, she takes out the box and opens it, met with the deep and rich scent of almond flavored cookies. All shaped like hearts.

"I know they're not chocolates." He shrugs, "but the book didn't cover those."

"You"—her eyes shoot up, lips stuck around that first word before she's fully processed what Barry said—"made me these?"

"I— ran to my mom like every five minutes." He scratches the back of his neck, his mouth pulling to the left side in that way he has. "But most of it's my work."

Little of her shock abates thinking about it; Barry in the kitchen with flour all over his hands and face, sprinkling it everywhere, and him running for his mom, sticking the cookie cutters in the fresh dough—the thought alone makes her so giddy she jumps up and down, and she wishes she could've been there to see it.

She hadn't meant anything by buying him a cookbook, other than start a small inside joke that'd hopefully lead Barry to learn to make things other than ramen, but this clearly worked out in her favor.

They share one cookie before class; they're a little dry but it's a successful first try.

She's such a lucky girl, having found someone else so thoughtful, and her heart near explodes with it. All she's been able to see for a long time, her own private life, has started to encompass Barry for at least half of that—her love for him, or maybe it's his love for her, has chipped away at so much of her hurt there are times she forgets she carries it with her in the first place.

She's never been this in love; she's never been more in love with Barry, than she is right now.

She regrets buying him only one gift for tonight, though she has his birthday present stashed in a bedside drawer—she's not sure any present would do, though, in return for all his love and all his patience these past few weeks.

Finally, the bell rings, signaling the start of the school day, and Hartley comes running, breathless and somewhat disheveled. Had she ever seen Hartley any other way but meticulously put together?

"Have you guys seen Cisco?" he asks, before pulling a shriveled paper heart from his pants pocket, one with Cisco's name handwritten on the back. "I got him this."

Barry shakes his head, stifling a smile. "You two—"

"What?"

She laughs, in full agreement with her boyfriend. "You're perfect for each other."

.

.

All through the day she and Barry search for their names on the ceiling; it becomes a healthy _who'll-find-theirs-first_ competition among the entire student body, but she thinks Hartley probably won that this morning. Cisco and Hartley barely show their faces outside of class, and she can only guess at where they hide away from Carrie—it didn't matter much when that meant she got to spend more time alone with Barry.

At lunch they sit side by side, her right leg hooked with Barry's left, and they talk about their date tonight, at a small bar called CJ's where a few local bands would be performing. She'd never been up to date with music, or what girls her age should be into, but as long as she had Barry she could imagine enduring a whole lot.

They set off in search of their names once they're done eating, but it takes until the very end of the day, after the final bell has rung and they're supposed to be on their way to pick up Charlie, that they locate their names dangling right next to each other, in Hallway C. One would think the Spirit Club would've made sure all the upperclassmen ended up in the same hallway, but clearly that logic had been lost to them.

Barry groans. "I can't believe they went with Bartholomew."

Pushing their shoulders together, she stifles a smile, because she knows Barry doesn't like his full name much. As far as she's aware, only his grandma got away with calling him that.

She snaps a picture, for posterity's sake, and then, she does something she never thought she would. She jumps up and catches Barry's heart, ripping it off the thread that's kept it attached to the ceiling all day, and folds it carefully between the pages of one of her notebooks.

"What are you doing?"

"Protecting your honor."

"Oh, my _honor_." Barry places a hand over his heart. "Well, in that case, I thank you."

"Caitlin," her name sounds. Carrie Cutter, cupid herself. "Barry."

She freezes on the spot. Did Carrie see her take the heart? Would she get a loud speech about school property or the sanctity of a holiday such as this? She meant no disrespect, even though she figures it's hers anyway, however entitled that may sound. Maybe Cisco and Hartley had the right idea, after all.

Much to her relief, Carrie passes them by, and waves. "Have a fun night, you two."

"Thanks, Carrie," Barry provides, as she shrinks a little closer out of embarrassment.

"Do you think she saw me?"

Barry throws an arm around her shoulders, and kisses her temple. "Let's not stick around to find out."

Laughing as free as ever, they wind down to the parking lot, and hurry to pick up Charlie in time. Her little brother comes running the moment he recognizes her car, and swiftly crawls into the backseat, talking a million miles an hour about the class' new pet turtle, which starts Barry reminiscing over a stuffed animal Iris once had, McSnurtle the Turtle.

She idly wonders how long it'll be before Charlie asks for a turtle. As far as pets go, a turtle might be manageable.

In all their excited rambling she sneaks the occasional glance at Charlie in the rearview mirror, his eyes alight with the same excitement Barry radiates, one that's in so many ways infected her as well. It affirms time and time again what a truly good person Barry is. Charlie liked Ronnie well enough, but he'd been too young to realize what having a brother truly meant—it's wholly different with Barry; the two of them are like two peas in a pod, and if it weren't for the two of them dating she might've lost Barry to her little brother long ago. But that thought warms her heart all the same.

"See you tonight," Barry says softly, right after kissing her, lingering somewhat in her private space.

Charlie covers both hands over his face.

She bumps their noses together. "I'll be waiting,"

"Where are you going, Caity?" Charlie asks as she turns down the lane.

"Barry and I are going out on a date for Valentine's Day."

"Will I see you?"

"In the morning, yes," she says, and pulls into the driveway—normally she'd try to assure him that if he's still awake she'll look in on him, but she doesn't want to run the risk of him trying to stay up for her, especially on a school night. She and Barry don't usually go out on school nights, but today's a special occasion.

She opens the car door for Charlie.

"Will daddy be home?"

"I'm not sure, Charlie."

She chews at her lower lip, mentally drafting together a list of things she hopes to get done before Barry picks her up; she'll probably stick to the outfit because she loves it so much, so she no longer has to worry about that, but there's dinner to consider, and maybe some laundry she can get done.

"Frankie can come watch you."

Her dad's work schedule can be considered hectic at best, incomprehensible at worst—he hasn't worked steady hours in his entire life, and even though he's done everything he can to change that, he still gets called away unexpectedly. He promised her he'd be home to watch Charlie tonight, but she has a babysitter on standby, just in case.

"She never wants to play Killer Frost."

She smiles at that. "I thought that was my job."

"Hey, kiddos," her dad's voice sounds from the kitchen, the scent of tomatoes drifting through the house. She can't help the relief that washes over her, crossing 'make dinner' off her list.

"Daddy!" Charlie squeals, and flashes away before she manages to take off his coat.

Drawing in a breath, she composes herself; today has been a beautiful day already, her dad's here to carry some of the slack, and he's making dinner. She has a date with the boy of her dreams, later. No need to get stressed.

She grabs Charlie's backpack off the floor, and heads for the kitchen too.

"Hey, dad."

"No Barry?"

"He's picking me up after dinner."

"Plans on sweeping you off your feet, huh?"

And like that, at the mere mention of Barry's name, she's smiling. She may not like seeing herself as a damsel in distress, but there's no doubt Barry's her white knight—he can carry her away from all this, help her shut out some of the noise, especially when it gets to be too much. That's always seemed odd to her, considering how much of a worrier he is himself, but the results speak for themselves. He's her wings, and her anchor, however contradicting that sound.

She can't wait to be swept off her feet.

"Lasagna okay tonight?"

She nods. "Need any help?"

"I got it covered."

No four words have ever sounded more freeing.

"You"—her dad points at Charlie, caught literally with his hand in the cookie jar—"Homework first."

Right. Homework.

She makes some tea, and watches her dad help Charlie with his reading, and her heart grows at the very sight. Her Snow boys, side by side. She often wonders if this is how all moms feel watching their families, if this is what her mom felt watching her and Charlie playing together, or if it could be any more overwhelming should she ever have kids of her own. It's hard to imagine her heart any bigger than it gets around Charlie and her dad, or Barry for that matter, and with that thought, other heavier ones surface. How could she ever leave this to go to college?

A dark cloud sets over her head, one that's followed her since that letter from MIT arrived mid-December, and she's had a hard time shaking it off. Ever since she started going to therapy again she's far more aware of when it's there and when it's not, and she's found coping mechanisms, even if one of them includes completely ignoring it's there.

Exactly like she's going to do now.

"Caity," her dad calls before she leaves.

She turns, expecting a new task she hadn't yet accounted for.

"You look beautiful."

For one split second, she flashes back to this morning in front of the mirror; her mom's sweater, her earrings, and her new hairdo—it'd seemed like looking at her mom's reflection. Before her mom died she never gave it much thought, how they had the same auburn hair and brown eyes, the small nose that ran in the family and their lips shaped the same. Now, in the moments she missed her mom the most, she held onto that idea so tight it held together all the pieces of her broken heart.

She swallows back her tears, and smiles. "Thanks, daddy."

Heading upstairs, she resolves to finish up her homework and get some reading done until dinner. But not before she pins Barry's card to the large corkboard over her desk, and the paper heart she stole right beside it.

Bartholomew Allen. Love of her life.

Pictures of them line the mirror next to the door, and she framed her favorite one to rest next to her bed, the corkboard mostly reserved for school and scheduling. Today will simply have to be an exception.

Eyes tracing from her class schedule, to the empty spot where a paper with her application deadlines hung for several months, to Barry's thoughtful card, a million thoughts come crashing back chaotically—it's gotten easier to wrap her mind around it, all the possibilities, all the opportunities within her reach, and she does what her therapist advised her to do when she felt ready—she takes the MIT acceptance letter out of the top left drawer of her desk, and pins it next to the Valentine's card, where she can see it, day in day out. MIT will need her decision before May 1st, so it won't do her well to delay thinking about where she'll go. She'd received other admissions, Colorado State and Cornell and Hudson University, but it's this one, MIT, that proved her biggest obstacle.

It's everything she's ever wanted.

And she's not sure she even wants it anymore.

Her dad's initial reaction to her reluctance had been to call her ridiculous, the same way outsiders might have done reaching around the first word that came to mind. It was ridiculous, how she'd never stood still long enough to think about the implications of all the work she did; her SATs, each essay and each interview, every single application were all implicit with the idea that after the summer, she'd go off to college somewhere, for the foreseeable future. If she truly wanted to become a biochemist it'd take her years before she's certified.

She'd gotten more than a little lost in her own fear and panic, and almost pushed Barry away in the process. Thankfully it hadn't come to that.

That same dark cloud threatens lightning overhead, so she grabs her books and starts working, avoiding the storm clouds for now. Nothing or no one would ruin her mood today.

An hour later her dad calls her down, and she spends dinner laughing at her brother struggling with his lasagna, getting tomato sauce all over his face, the table, and the bib she had the foresight of tying around his neck.

Her dad insists on doing the dishes, if she manages to clean Charlie of any and all tomato remains.

Once her task's completed Charlie follows her upstairs and helps her apply a new temporary tattoo, rubbing it onto her skin with a wet finger; she even gets a kiss out of it.

"What was that for?"

"Valentine!"

Charlie's eyes sparkle, and he jumps up into her arms, and it's all she can do to keep from toppling over—her outfit's fine, so she doesn't have to fuss about that anymore, made all the more perfect with the necklace Barry got her for New Year's. She hasn't taken it off once, far too in love with the tiny microscope and the small plate with his initials on them. She hopes his birthday present will come to mean the same thing to him, in turn.

The doorbell rings, and she rushes downstairs, quick to open the door for her gentleman caller.

"Hey."

Barry Allen, fresh on her doorstep. What a sight to behold.

And she does, for a few moments, settles against the door and watches him in all his tall and gangly glory, straightening the collar of his jacket, the foil around the flowers he brought crackling between his fingers. She's struck by how handsome he looks, the dim porch light catching high at his cheekbones

He catches her staring, but doesn't call her out on it.

"You okay?"

With a small smile she nods, tired but happy, and moves aside to let him in.

"Flowers for my lady," Barry offers with a bow, and holds out a small bouquet of red roses, almost perfectly matched with his sweater.

She laughs, entirely enamored, and brings the flowers to her nose, breathing in their rich scent. "These are beautiful. Thank you."

In the kitchen, she grabs a vase from under the counter and fills it with some water, cutting the flowers free before fanning them out in the crystal. She smells them again, and closes her eyes, and smiles bringing to mind their first date, when Barry had forgotten the daisies he bought, but brought them to her the next day. What a ways they've come.

If only her mom were here; what a joy it would be to share this with her, to be able to talk about a boy she loves and laugh at his shenanigans—she misses that, someone to talk about boys to. Felicity emails from time to time, but it's not quite the same, and it'd be weird to do so with her dad. Her mom would've absolutely loved Barry. At the end of the day, she knows her dad does too; not that he'd ever let him know.

Soon, they're both out on the porch, braving the last remnants of winter, and she pulls Barry to a halt with a simple tug on his hand. Barry stops, and she brings a hand to his cheek, reveling in the green of his eyes and the pink of his lips, and when they touch hers, when they meets hers in a kiss, whatever dark cloud had been there before dissipates. It doesn't always happen around Barry, and it doesn't only happen around Barry, but today he's gained these superpowers through sheer force of will. She won't let her problems ruin their night, and, in time, she will deal with her problems for them. Whatever decision she makes, wherever it may lead, she'll need Barry.

Their lips part and the kiss deepens, and she wishes either their parents weren't home—she'd give about anything to spend some time in Barry's arms tonight, skin to skin, kissing and cuddling, tumbling around in the sheets. Maybe they'll find some time later this week.

"You could've just said 'hello'." Barry pulls back, trying to catch his breath.

She laughs. "That wouldn't have been as much fun."

Barry kisses her forehead. "You ready?"

"Lead the way."

CJ's is a hidden hole-in-the-wall bar for high schoolers—they don't serve any alcohol, and specialize in teas, both hot and cold, from all over the world. The biggest draw is the short stage at the back of the room, reserved for local upcoming bands and the occasional comedian, deep oaks making it appear even smaller.

Tonight, warm fairy lights stream down the walls, and dot the ceiling like stars.

She recalls their first date again, how nervous she'd been and how shy—she and Barry were friends, and she'd hoped –more than she feared it– that dating would change their relationship, but she hadn't been able to stifle her concerns. She'd liked Barry for a long while, longer than she should've, and pursuing him when she did had seemed like an awfully big risk. He'd confessed to liking her before the summer, when she wasn't in any position to be with him, and after the summer she feared her chances gone.

It quickly became clear that wasn't the case.

It took a while, but Barry asked her out, and she'd never been more ready to start something new.

'New' had been a good word to describe it, because she and Barry talked easily about physics and chemistry and homework, but she'd wanted more.

How did she ever get so lucky?

Now they sink into their seats at the round table without any apprehension. They're in tune and draw together like opposites poles of a magnet; they shift at the same time, and anticipate the other's moves, and seek out each other's bodies.

There's a single candle in the center of the table, in a round crystal ball.

They both order an iced tea, other couples pouring into the small establishment as the first artist of the night sets up.

"Here"—she pushes a small package Barry's way—"open your present."

Barry looks at her in surprise. "You didn't have to get me anything," he says, but hastily rips at the wrapping, tugging out a blue shirt that has a well-worded pun printed on it.

"I _oxytocin_ chemistry!" Barry exclaims, easily recognizing the same chemical structure that'd been printed on his card this morning. "And the nonapeptide goes"—he clears his throat—"cysteine-tyrosine-isoleucine-glutamine-asparagine..."

"Cysteine-proline-leucine-glycine-amide," she offers, and they share a laugh. Neither of them memorized that whole thing not to show off at least a little.

"Great minds think alike."

Barry steals a quick kiss, and it's like a breath of fresh air, her lungs opening around that elusive tomorrow they could have, if only it didn't sound so scary.

"I love it, thank you so much."

Truthfully, being with Barry isn't the part that scares her; if it were up to her he'd never leave her side again, but she can't decide that for him. Looking at him now, his face bathed in gold hues cast by the single candle, she thinks, not for the first time, she could spend a lifetime with Barry and it wouldn't be enough. Her dad would say it's too soon for her to know that, that she's at the very beginning of her life unfolding and things might change, _she_ might change, and whom she loves might change too.

But that's not possible. She'll never love anyone the way she loves Barry. Some days she fears she might burst with it, that good kind of agony that comes from loving someone, and being loved in return, and how could that ever change? How could this ever change?

Her dad liked to pretend Barry had been a contender for her affections, like somehow he had to fight her other suitors and won her like some sort of prize, but she never saw it that way. Never mind that she didn't like to think of herself as a prize to be won, and Barry never had any competition. Somehow she thinks she had a bigger competitor in Felicity than Barry ever had in Ronnie—she and Ronnie both knew it wouldn't last between them past high school. Maybe, if things had been different, they would have. But no one can change the past.

"You're staring again."

"Well"—one of her eyebrows rises—"you're very dreamy."

"That I am."

She laughs, unable to disagree, and leans her head down on his shoulder, dreaming –in so many ways– of a future where she manages to hold on to everything—her dad and Charlie and Barry, MIT and Felicity, and before long there's that dark cloud creeping up on her again.

No. She won't give it perch tonight.

Drawing in a deep breath, she takes a sip from her iced tea, and entwines her fingers with Barry's, willing away the bad thoughts. It won't be like this forever, and she'll end up making a decision, but just for tonight she's a girl, in love with a boy, just that, and they're enjoying a quiet night out.

.

.

Later, with another half hour to spare before her curfew, they head for the waterfront esplanade, curving around the Westside of the bay with a broad walkway, small parks and benches, a perfect tourist attraction for those that travelled to Central City. It brings to mind their first date yet again, when they had the same stunning view of the city, lit up in the most amazing colors, rough gold streaks dancing over the water. Most of her nerves had left her by then, and hearing Barry confirm that he'd liked her for a long time, and that he still liked her, chased away the last of her apprehension to the point where she could make a confession of her own—Barry lowered her natural defenses, those that people might perceive as cold, and she'd admitted in so many words how worried she'd been they'd have nothing to talk about.

That night had been the start of everything; more intimate talks led her to adjust some of her initial assumptions about Barry and his family, how behind all that cute shyness hid a true and good person, a loyal son, and the best brother Iris could hope for. He made her laugh, and for the first time ever she felt truly seen by another human being, and he treated her soft, though perhaps a little too careful from time to time. There'd been a few bumps along the way, but none that'd driven a wedge between them. She'd hazard saying they've only brought them closer together.

"What do you think Cisco and Hartley are doing?"

"They're holed up in Hartley's room."

She hooks her arm in Barry's. She knows Cisco often likes to overshare the intimate details of his relationship, but if he's with Hartley at the moment she can't see Hartley letting him get away with that. If at all possible those two are even more in love than her and Barry, but outsiders might not say so. Hartley and Cisco were very protective of what they had, as they should be, not just because they were trying to hide from Hartley's parents.

It's hard to imagine the Rathaways' views on Hartley's love life. Her dad may not have approved of her dating someone older, but he never threatened anything to break them up. She's happy Hartley and Cisco found each other in all that, and managed to fight the odds together.

"Cisco texted me," Barry says. "That's all I really needed to know."

"Is it weird that I'm kind of jealous?"

What if they could hole up in Barry's room right now? What if they could be all wandering hands underneath the sheets, Barry's body heavy on top of hers, his mouth hovering over her skin wherever he could reach? That'd be some ending to a perfect day.

Barry ducks his head with a shy smile.

She likes that she can make him blush. She likes that he's just a little bit more Victorian about this than she is—she takes no issue talking about sex or her body, or making it known what she likes, but Barry's never been so quick to admit it. He's the gentlest boy she's ever met, and even though there'd been but a single boy before him, that's a moniker she grants him without hesitation. Because she wants him to be last boy to ever touch her like that too.

Barry nods. "It— would've been nice to have the house to ourselves."

They might've had a quiet night in, a homemade dinner and a sappy movie, followed by dessert, and then sneaking up to Barry's bedroom. They would've slipped beneath the sheets in only their underwear, and made love, somewhat less awkward than their first time. She'd learned a bit about Barry's sweet spots, the things that drove him wild, and some things he still shied away from. In time, there'll be no more hesitation in how their bodies moved together.

"Didn't your parents have plans?"

"Dad cooked."

"Oh?"

She wasn't aware Mr. Allen could cook, or that he cooked at all, being so busy with his patients all the time. Unless Barry'd cleverly withheld this information to save face; she feels a lot less guilty over that cookbook now.

"Yeah, he went all out. Practically chased me out of the house."

She laughs. "That's cute."

"They're— stupidly in love," Barry sighs, but there's that admiration and longing in his voice that tells her he secretly loves that about his parents. She used to love that about her parents too, though she never admitted it; how they'd kiss each other sweetly every morning and every night, and they'd both stop what they were doing for a few minutes to give each other their undivided attention, no matter how tired they were from work; how she'd catch them in each other's arms watching TV, or dancing to the radio in the kitchen, whenever they thought she and Charlie couldn't see. Even at a young age, she hoped to catch some semblance of what her parents shared for herself.

Maybe she has.

They halt to a stop by the water, facing each other, and Barry takes hold of both of her hands, much colder than his.

"Kind of like how I am— with you," he says.

Cheeks heating up, she shies away with a smile.

She likes that he can make her blush, too. She likes that despite her own romantic dispositions, Barry's cornier than she is, and cornier than she ever thought anyone could be. Her dad previously held the record on that.

Last Valentine's she'd stayed home, and Ronnie hadn't made a big deal out of it—he'd gotten her flowers and chocolates, but she'd spent the evening making cookies with her dad and Charlie, watching cartoons and reading him a bedtime story together, all in the hopes of carrying some of her dad's loneliness. She didn't get her love of Valentine's from her mom.

If she'd been in any better state herself she might've stayed home this year as well, but between the progress she made in her own healing process, her dad's quiet approval of her boyfriend, and all the surprises Barry turned out to be, Valentine's was allowed to be Valentine's this year; fluffy and sweet, and magical.

Barry's the one staring now, eyes searching her face for those elusive answers neither of them have been able to find. Will they stay together? Will they go to the same college? Will this last forever?

In that moment, she's certain it will.

Barry brushes her hair back behind her ear, fingertips tickling over her skin.

"Are you okay?"

He's been asking her that a lot lately, but she's made him the implicit promise to answer truthfully, no matter how good or how awful she felt. It hadn't been easy, but Barry worried quickly and jumped to conclusions when she left things unsaid, so she'd opened up to him about a lot of things. Many of their hours together these past few weeks have been the two of them talking, about what'd send her spiraling and why, about her therapy sessions and how they made her feel better, about the ways she coped and when she didn't.

In turn, he understood that what she was going through wouldn't be fixed overnight, and that he may have to exert some more patience.

Somehow, it'd brought them even closer together. There wasn't anything she felt she had to hide from Barry, not that there ever was, but whatever distance she'd kept between them for the sake of her sanity, for the sake of quieting the chaos rumbling through her mind, had completely gone. What had she been thinking shutting it all up inside again? That had never helped her before, and wouldn't help her now she had this massive worrier in her life. Somehow, that part had been easier around Ronnie—she could hide things more easily, or maybe he simply let her. Barry didn't let her get away with it.

"I am." She nods. "Dad was home. It helped."

Barry smiles that understanding smile of his, and kisses next to her lips, her cheek and her temple, and next thing she stands enveloped by his arms. She rises a little on her toes to meet him properly, and hugs around him. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, like she has so many times before, and any tension left in her body unspools.

Yes, she does wish she could take him home tonight.

"Barry."

She pulls back, but only far enough to catch Barry's eyes, reluctant and wholly unwilling to untangle their limbs.

"What is it?"

"I need you to know," she says, "Everything you've done for me these past few weeks— I know it hasn't been easy for you."

"Hey." Barry cups her face. "I told you. We're in this together. We're team—"

"Undecided?" she provides, though they're not undecided, not really, because Barry's yet to receive any letters, and she worries that waiting for them to arrive has become one of Barry's biggest fears. Somehow, she'll have to make him open up about that too. They're so eerily alike in this.

"Team— Playing the Field?"

She laughs, though, arguably, they're not doing that either. She's been given all her options and she's only hovering between two; Hudson University, close to home, close to Barry now, or MIT, over 700 miles from her family—and she can't yet say what Barry will choose. Was she mature enough to make a choice that'll affect her future? Was she strong enough to make that kind of decision? What about Charlie and her dad? What about her dreams?

What about Barry's?

"I mean it," she says, and doesn't release his eyes, finding a bit more stable footing. "I'd be lost without you."

Barry blinks a few times, clearly at a loss for words, and he could easily say that's giving him too much credit, he could laugh it off, or blush, or deny it outright—that's just how he is. But she doesn't give him the chance.

"What you've done for me, and my family, it means the world to me, Barry."

There aren't any words to properly embody it all; this friendship that's grown into a stable relationship she sees lasting forever, the bond he created with her brother, the shy reserve he upholds around her dad, the jealousy he's worked through for her, the love he shows her every day and more than that, possibly even more important than all of that combined, the space he allows for her mom.

Barry could never truly understand what she lost, but goodness knows he tries.

She watches Barry consider all that, his lips parting and moving around words she hasn't allowed him to utter, and she's happy he doesn't. He has to learn to take the compliments he gets.

"I'm glad," he whispers, a bit overwhelmed, just like her.

They share a smile, and head further along the water, both of them needing a moment to catch their breaths.

She hadn't meant for tonight to turn so sentimental, but she's been overwhelmed by a lot of feelings lately, not all of them good, so it's nice to let the better ones surface for a change. And Barry deserves to know what he means to her; she'll tell him every day if she has to, every tomorrow, and every day after that, until he accepts it.

"Do you ever think about— the future?"

She bites at her lower lip, aware of Barry's eyes falling to her, silently wondering what she means by 'the future'; someday soon they'll have to talk about it, college and leaving home, about them and what will happen to them should they not attend the same school.

That's a conversation that has them both terrified, because that's all still so uncertain. She's not sure she could go on without Barry, but she'd never want him to make that decision for her—it should be his, and his alone, and he should chase his dreams.

Selfishly, however, she likes to believe that some of those dreams include her, as well.

"I don't mean a few months from now, or college. I mean—"

"Beyond that? About us?"

Startled by her own forwardness, she stops them to a halt, and catches Barry's eyes. Can he see the same things she can? Does he dream about future Valentine's Days and anniversaries, vacations by themselves, more holidays and birthdays and anniversaries than they can count?

She nods.

Like a few minutes ago, Barry's lips part, and he rolls his shoulders while he searches for the right words, seemingly afraid to say the wrong thing. Maybe he can't see that far ahead, and that's fine—she shouldn't get that far ahead anyway, when there's still so much to figure out, and enjoy, right here, right now.

"I'm sorry." She giggles, her boyfriend too cute for words, and rises on her toes to his cheek. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot."

"No"—Barry shakes his head, staring down at their locked hands—"it's fine."

When he looks at her again, any joking around has left his eyes, and what's left passes for the deepest devotion Barry's capable of conveying.

He does see it, all the tomorrows and the days after.

"I love you," he says. "Of course I think about it."

She shoots forward and begs a kiss, and a few more for good measure, before her heart bursts from sheer happiness. "So do I," she whispers, and they end their day the way they started it, smiling to each other's lips, Barry's hand on her cheek drawing circles, and her fingers in his hair making him hers.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Caitlin," Barry breathes in between kisses.

She giggles. "Happy Valentine's Day, Barry."

.

.

.

(There'll be other Valentine's Days that aren't quite so sentimental.

Next year they'll tumble into bed together after a grueling day of classes and labs, and Barry will jokingly put a sock on the doorknob to keep his roommate out. He won't have baked cookies, but he'll have bought her roses and another sentimental card with a pun, though not a chemistry one that time.

The year after that, having somewhat learned to juggle school and their private lives, they'll double date—Felicity and her new beau –a TA of all people– will sit opposite them at a fancy restaurant, and it'll be the most awkward dinner they ever sat through. But for Felicity, they don't mind making the effort.

Three years later, Barry graduated and starting an internship at Mercury Labs, she working on a doctoral degree at Hudson University, they'll revisit some old haunts; CJ's and Jitters, and that waterfront flickering to life.

That's the same year Barry will ask her to marry him.)

.

.

 **tbc**

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End file.
